Psych
by Caira
Summary: The most dangerous creature the Initiative ever captured is about to wake up.


===  
  
"PSYCH"  
by Rancour  
rancour@iprimus.com.au  
  
Remastered 21/7/01  
  
Anything relating to Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Fox and  
Joss. "Paradise City" belongs to Guns N' Roses (whether that's an  
improvement on the usual crap found in fanfic soundtracks is a  
judgment I leave to the reader).  
  
Spoilers: Something Blue. Hush hasn't happened. 314 doesn't exist.  
  
Takes place over roughly one week, from Tuesday to Sunday.  
  
===  
  
PROLOGUE  
  
---  
  
FRIDAY  
  
---  
  
Walk into the room in breathless anticipation. Yet another four  
hours' quality time with thirty or so TVs, each of them showing some  
variant of the same goddamn boring Captured Hellbeast channel.  
Vampires, mostly, out cold or starving, with the occasional bizarre  
demon thrown in just to liven things up.  
  
"Hey, David, shift's over and there's no... Hi, Riley. What're you  
doing here? I didn't think you had idiot-box duty until tomorrow."  
  
"Huh? Uh, I don't, but..." and he gestures toward the largest  
screen, usually reserved for whichever demon secretes the most  
interesting body fluid or produces the most interesting snore -- or,  
if the bosses have been around, merely the most dangerous specimen.  
Instead, we have a teenage girl. Going by her appearance, a high  
school kid.  
  
"That the new hostile? Christ, she looks like she could cheerlead  
for the country! I thought vampires usually went for the slutty  
type. Not that the two are all *that* far apart... You alright?"  
  
He isn't. The look on his face tells me that. And he's looking at  
the screen... wistfully? Finn likes a bloodsucker?  
  
"You go with her or something?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"Was this before, or...?"  
  
"Before what? Wh-- She's not a vampire, Mike. Does... did freshman  
Psych with Walsh and me. Got a pulse, got a temperature, got a  
complexion, and she's kept them for the last eight hours."  
  
"So we captured her because..."  
  
"Not many humans -- hell, not many vampires -- can take out two of  
Sunnydale's finest with a broken branch, or dodge one of Ewell's  
taser darts at twenty yards, or break a tranq gun in half with their  
bare hands."  
  
"Shit. So what is she?"  
  
"From all the tests so far, human. We'll find out more when she  
wakes up, but they put enough in her to sink a vampire for a day and  
a night. God only knows how long until she comes to."  
  
At that point, she yawns, stretches, pulls herself up as if she was  
in her bedroom rather than a demon confinement cell, and has her  
first encounter with the "glass" wall. She jumps. Riley gabbles.  
  
"She should have been out for longer... should have hit the other  
wall when she... *can't*... be human..."  
  
"Hello? Anyone there?"  
  
The freak speaks.  
  
"HELLO?!"  
  
The freak looks around for another few seconds, shrugs, then  
shoulder-charges the glass.  
  
And breaks through.  
  
===  
  
PART ONE: DOUBLE-PAGE TABLOID SPREAD  
  
---  
  
TUESDAY, GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"So, Giles! What's the latest threat to life as we know it? It had  
better be big, and we're talking end-of-the-world here, 'cause  
there's this big party on in --"  
  
"'Ello, Slayer. 'Ello, Willow."  
  
"'Ello yourself, Spike. Where's Giles? He called us about patrol,  
kinda insistent on the 'hurry' part now that Xander's got that job  
at the gas station."  
  
"Ah, Buffy, Willow, there you are... You know that vampire activity  
is, ah... increasing again, despite the, ah... best efforts of our,  
ah... stormtrooper friends, and, ah..."  
  
"Spit it out, Giles. Do we get to go to the party with the frat  
boys, or the party with the undead? Not that there's much  
difference..." She pauses. "You're sending out Spike instead of me?  
I know those 'Kiss the Librarian' mugs do wonders for the vampire  
circulation, but..."  
  
"Not... exactly, Buffy..."  
  
"Try 'with' rather than 'instead', luv."  
  
"Explain, Giles. I know you like British punk, but do you have to  
send me out with one? Besides, hasn't he been de-clawed? *And* those  
commando guys will be after him..."  
  
"And we can't trust him! You remember what happened last time you  
untied him? He ran off to the college and hit Buffy and asked her to  
marry him and then I... ooh."  
  
Considering how pale she is, it's amazing how Willow can go so red  
so quickly.  
  
"First of all, he can't harm *living things*. That definition  
doesn't extend to other vampires, apparently... and it certainly  
doesn't include my living room floor. As for the other risks, I'm  
afraid that circumstances are serious enough for me to consider it."  
  
Pulls a piece of paper from under a book on his desk, begins to read  
from it.  
  
"'And on the twelfth night of Dravien's Blooding, the Mouth of Hell  
will be as--'"  
  
"A prophecy? Impending doom for all mankind? Why, Giles, you  
shouldn't have! We haven't had one of those in two years! Why  
couldn't those idiots ever stay off the mushrooms?!"  
  
"Buffy, please, this is serious. 'The Mouth of Hell will be as  
dust--'"  
  
"As dust? Doesn't that mean nothing? Doesn't that mean it's  
destroyed? Doesn't that mean that Sunnydale isn't demon paradise  
anymore? Isn't that a good thing?"  
  
"*As* I was saying, Willow, 'The Mouth of Hell will be as dust when  
compared to the horror of that which will be called...'"  
  
"Will be called what?"  
  
"I don't know. Apparently Prachetius, the man who came up with all  
of this, only foresaw the name written down. There's a colour plate  
of the writing in here," he said, grabbing the book and opening it  
in front of Willow, "but I've compared it with every ancient or  
mystical text known to man, and I haven't been able to find anything  
that remotely resembles i--"  
  
"That... looks kinda like Cyrillic."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"It's Cyrillic. It's written in Cyrillic script. If you allow for a   
little... Okay, okay, don't look at me like that. It should be easy   
enough to transliterate, I know a few sites."  
  
"Willow, you do know we're at Giles's, don't you? Notable lack of  
'dread machines'?"  
  
"I know, but a decent encyclopaedia'll have it."  
  
"Great! Research Girl saves the day yet again!" Turns to Giles. "Can  
we go party now?"  
  
"Well, no. You see, the other seventy-five lines of the prophecy  
I've translated dealt with the means of bringing about this...  
horror. In rather more detail than was necessary."  
  
Maybe it's just the starting point, but Giles can do a far better  
imitation of a beetroot than Willow can. Buffy tries unsuccessfully  
to stifle a giggle.  
  
"OK, Giles. What's the tagline to Worse than the Hellmouth: The  
Movie?"  
  
"What? Oh. Well... here we are... 'Two score hellions to drink the  
blood, two score hellions to make it flow.' Before you ask, that  
means -- I think -- that they need forty vampires or other small  
demons to participate in the ritual, and forty more to stand guard."  
  
"I've never been able to figure out what it is with us demons and  
our rituals. It just gives the local White Hats more time to turn up  
and ruin the party."  
  
"Thank you, Spike. When I want your opinion I'll ask for it."  
  
"What's this big ritual horror Hell thingy supposed to do, anyway?"  
  
"I've no idea. I'm only halfway through translating this damn  
prophecy, and I only have a rough idea when this Twelfth Night is  
supposed to occur -- sometime between yesterday and two weeks from  
tomorrow, as far as I can tell. But the threat of eighty vampires  
converging on a town this size is terrifying enough. If even half go  
hunting..."  
  
"So obviously either you're counting wrong or this Cyrillic terror  
of yours is a dud. Eighty vamps are a hard thing not to notice,  
Giles. A few of them can lie low, but that just means the rest need  
to bring more food home. I've been patrolling every morning and  
night for the last week! A lot of guys have asked me to move on, but  
none of them have had fangs. Hell, no trace of those Area 51 types  
either."  
  
"First, we probably aren't just talking vampires here. They're just  
the most common breed of demon, and the easiest to press into  
service. Second, look at this."  
  
The Missing Persons section. Sunnydale was probably the only small  
town in the world to have a double-page tabloid spread in the local  
paper dedicated to "Have you seen this lost boy/girl/drummer/army  
battalion" ads. Most of these were followed up a month or so later  
in the even larger Obituaries section, but the important part was to  
never give up hope that someone in the town would start a gang and  
get it addicted to PCP so that there would be some tiny chance that  
the coroner's report was true.  
  
Even so, it had been cut in half in recent weeks as the Ascension  
fiasco, the Scooby Gang, and rumours of the Initiative (all that  
worry about the one escapee and it never occurred to them that they  
might have captured a telepathic demon) combined to virtually wipe  
out the appeal of the Hellmouth to your average off-the-street  
bloodsucker, almost nullifying the body count.  
  
This week's count was somewhat overshadowed by the two large  
articles screaming out the "tragic and mysterious disappearance" of  
three unusually large buses -- one containing a small jamboree's  
worth of scout groups and the other two minor-league baseball teams  
-- within two days of each other.  
  
"Look -- the same bus company. All they'd have to do is misinform a  
couple of drivers. If they eat as much as we give Spike, and don't  
mind a few rats between meals, there'll be enough to keep a  
*hundred* vampires going, at full strength, for a fortnight."  
  
---  
  
MEANWHILE, NEAR WHAT THE VAMPIRES CALL "THE RANCH"...  
  
---  
  
The fucking idiots.  
  
The stupid, clueless, muscles-where-the-brain-should-be idiots. To  
think I first joined them thinking that they were the only vampires  
in the world to have two brain cells to bash together. How naive.  
The moment the local do-gooders find out where we're going to hold  
this goddamn ritual we're all history. If they don't notice the  
missing busloads first.  
  
I have to admit that pulling this one off was always going to be a  
tough ask, considering the requirements -- one night of the decade,  
a holy place still in active use by humans, eighty vampires in the  
one area, all on the Hellmouth. The secret red-eye flight to get all  
the necessary bloodsuckers in was an absolute masterstroke. The  
extra twenty vampires are a necessary evil in a town with one of the  
strongest and longest-lived Slayers on record and some mysterious  
X-Files-meets-cosmetics-company demon hunters trying to make up in  
technology and attitude for what they lack in common sense. But they  
wouldn't need any of this effort and risk if they'd just chosen a  
different fucking ritual.  
  
And you can't food-and-shelter a hundred demons without somebody  
picking up on it. The only way to take care of the former is to  
misdirect a few buses and hope that no-one notices, and the latter  
has its own problems. Sure, "The Ranch" is physically big enough to  
host a hundred vampires and their food supplies, but vamps are  
naturally about as co-operative as Coyote and Road Runner during a  
dynamite shortage. It's impossible to stop your minions from  
fighting and stealing without the immediate threat of death, and the  
failure to enforce said threat had taken out fifteen or so of the  
reserves.  
  
And then some of the food disappeared. No-one owned up to it, of  
course, and no-one looks any better fed than usual, but no-one wants  
to face up to the very real possibility that they may have escaped.  
Another thing about these idiots -- they can't seem to see humans as  
anything more than circus animals, anything more than entertainment  
and food, when they're frequently a lot smarter than their captors.  
Then again, there are things growing on old dead tree stumps that  
are smarter than your average vampire. Unfortunately, these tree  
stumps have big weapons, so I have to follow their orders, at least  
for the time being.  
  
The idea was simple: knock out a few humans, dump the bodies in the  
van provided, come back when you've got a dozen or so. Three  
alcoholics later, I'm left standing near the middle of what passes  
for a bad part of this town holding a tranq gun with two  
even-stupider-than-usual fledglings, and incidentally am perfect  
Slayer bait. And I've got a bastard of a headache that only gets  
worse as we go further into town. I try to remember the last time I  
had one this bad, suppress a scream when I do, and then excuse  
myself from the dumb-as-hell duo to the top of a nearby building  
with some binoculars. Watching them lounge around with all the  
subtlety of a nuclear war, I think about using my tranqs on them and  
saving the Slayer some effort. Then I swing my field of vision to  
the right, see an unmistakable -- even from legend -- blonde head,  
and decide not to waste my ammo.  
  
The blonde head strides up to the two fledges, briefly exchanges  
some no-doubt-witty repartee I'm glad I can't hear, removes her  
jacket, makes short but showy work of the duo, and moves on. Without  
her jacket. I follow her with the binoculars well over the horizon,  
pull on some leather gloves, and decide to have a look at the  
Slayer's taste in fashion.  
  
A few stakes, a few crosses (hence the gloves), and a purse  
containing more stakes, makeup and a compact mirror, and an address  
book. Have a quick flick through, see a few names you wouldn't  
expect a teenager to want to remember. Pause. Well, why shouldn't I?  
Get in the van, drive to a payphone, dial a number.  
  
"Hello, Rupert Giles speaking."  
  
---  
  
MEANWHILE, ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN...  
  
---  
  
Damn, I love this car. Well-sealed and shaded windows, air  
conditioning, cigarette lighter, and a sound system so good I can  
hardly hear myself sing along. Which is all good, particularly the  
last bit.  
  
o/~ Oh won't you please take me home? o/~  
  
Synth break, then Axl fires up a riff... what I'd give to play   
a gig with him. Sure, I can't play an instrument to save my life,   
but... damn!  
  
o/~ I'm just a' urchin, livin' under the street o/~  
  
Mexico was getting boring. Trouble with the locals is, half an hour  
after eating you can do with another one, and after a week of that  
there's no-one left to eviscerate and you have to go on to the next  
town.  
  
o/~ I'm a hard case, that's tough to beat o/~  
  
So I figured I'd go check out the City of Angels.  
  
o/~ I'm your charity case, so buy me somethin' to eat o/~  
  
Maybe try find the Slayer's ex, see if he's everything the grapevine  
makes him out to be.  
  
o/~ I'll pay you at another time... o/~  
  
Besides, border guards make a good midday snack.  
  
o/~ ... take it to the end of the line o/~  
  
Slam on the brakes with the break, and get out the map. I don't  
know any Sunnydale.  
  
o/~ Rags to riches or so they say o/~  
  
Oh, wait, that Hellmouth thing. Freak called Luke invited me down  
for some Harvest a few years back. I told him thanks, but it's not  
my style.  
  
o/~ Ya gotta keep pushin' for the fortune and the fame o/~  
  
Guess it didn't work, either, if the amount of town left's anything  
to go by. Roll back, take another look at the sign.  
  
o/~ It's all a gamble, when it's just a game o/~  
  
Grin, move the car just right, pull out and twist the cigarette   
lighter.  
  
o/~ Ya treat it like a capital crime... o/~  
  
The right headlamp pulls down, and a jet of flame bursts out, slowly  
moving from left to right, incinerating the sign. Not that they'll  
miss something that hideous. Just doing my duty to the community.  
Sure, it reeks of James Bond, but who cares when it's so much fun?  
  
o/~ ... everybody's doin' their time! o/~  
  
Drive on, to an all-night gas station, grab a bite to eat. Cute kid.  
I like this one. Leave him not *quite* dead outside the hospital.  
Y'know, let the Slayer know I'm here.  
  
o/~ Take me down to the Paradise City, where the grass is green and  
the girls are pretty... o/~  
  
===  
  
PART TWO: THE KIND OF POLICE  
  
---  
  
The roads of Sunnydale at night. The lights are on, but most people  
are at home, asleep, and staying that way. They may all have the  
town's unique brand of amnesia, but that doesn't mean they aren't  
afraid of all those bizarre gangs out there.  
  
There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. A few are awake for  
their own mysterious reasons, trying to rehabilitate the region's  
many PCP addicts being one of the most common. Apparently studies of  
the occult are of considerable help here, though it is never  
explained why. For most college students, the definition of "home"  
can be extended to anywhere on or nearby campus; for the town's  
youth in general, the Bronze is a lot more fun than sitting at home  
moping over the mysterious death of half their relatives by barbecue  
fork anaemia.  
  
And then, of course, there's the young vampire in the gleaming black  
sports car screeching to a halt outside the hospital and dumping a  
body there.  
  
---  
  
MEANWHILE, JUST AROUND THE CORNER...  
  
---  
  
"Well, that was a waste of time."  
  
"Look, Forrest, we'll go on patrolling every night until we find the  
hostile."  
  
"Why? He's neutered, can't harm a living thing to save his unlife.  
And his friends, what few there are, aren't getting any more  
cautious, so I personally think he's dust and bones. Didn't you see  
what happened to those vamps Third Div starved?"  
  
"I don't want to kn--"  
  
Something barrels past.  
  
"What the hell was that?"  
  
"Black car, didn't get the make, license number UQT-985. He was all  
over the road, a door was open, God only knows how fast he was  
going. Two feet further to the right and you'd be dead, Riley."  
  
"Thanks for that vote of confidence, Graham. No point in tracking  
it, it'll be halfway to the high school already. Anyway, it's a job  
for the kind of police who don't have to worry about bloodsucking  
demons on a nightly basis."  
  
Turn a corner.  
  
"Is this?"  
  
There's a kid sprawled out on the footpath, looking badly injured,  
unconscious, and bloodless as a Mickey Mouse cartoon. Drained for  
sure. Rush over, and against all odds, he has a pulse. The  
hospital's easily within sight, but nobody seems to be doing  
anything on that end.  
  
"What do we do, sir?"  
  
"I'm not sure... do we have a guy inside the hospital?"  
  
"We do -- in bed with a broken leg."  
  
"OK, then, we'll do the John Wayne thing."  
  
Riley and Graham change into casuals, pick up the body, and drag it  
and themselves into the emergency room.  
  
---  
  
FROM THE CAR  
  
---  
  
Shit! What in the hell were those three doing out here at this hour?  
Guess I'll need to put on the spare 'plates. Lucky for them I've fed  
already...  
  
The trouble with new towns is finding a place to spend the day.  
Normally I'd just find some local to board with, but I haven't seen  
a single damn vampire anywhere around here. The idiots I nearly   
sideswiped didn't have quick enough reflexes. Either the Mouth of   
Hell is heavily overrated, the Slayer and whatever weird help she   
has now heavily underrated, or the regional Master takes the whole   
living-underground thing a little too close to heart. Probably all   
of the above. Guess I'll have to settle for some abandoned basement.   
Fucking hell.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"So, a hundred vampires are hidden somewhere, feeding off busloads  
of Babe Ruth wannabes and working on some untranslated horror which  
could start at any moment. Therefore, you want Spike to patrol with  
me. Am I missing something? Fifty-to-one odds don't offer a much  
better chance of survival than a hundred to one, so I don't see what  
good Bleachboy is."  
  
"I never said you had to patrol side by side. I merely suggested  
that you two go out and thoroughly search a different half of the  
town. If and when you find anything, you report back here and we'll  
see where we go from there."  
  
"And... you think we can set Spike loose? I mean, it's not as if he  
actually remembered much about those commando guys, but he knows  
that after we did the truth spell there was no reason..."  
  
"Yes, I do. Buffy, Spike, go out that door, one of you turns left,  
the other right, run or call back if you find anything. Willow, I  
take it you can stay and research?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Good, I'll just see if I can find--"  
  
"This?" said Willow, holding up volume three of Giles' newest  
encyclopaedia.  
  
"Actually, I think you'll want the fourth volume."  
  
---  
  
PATROL  
  
---  
  
Anticlimax.  
  
Surprise, surprise, I've been all over town (the town to the left of  
Giles's front door, anyway) and not one single evil hellbeast. Not  
even a human. I double back along Springhead Avenue, back toward  
Giles's, and wonder how the hell I didn't notice these two fine male  
bloodsuckers sharing a cigarette under the street lights. They're  
obviously rookies. Don't they know that anything that smokes in this  
town is automatically doomed? Besides, vampires who don't learn why  
they're called creatures of *shadow* don't last longer than a month.  
  
"Hi! Great night, isn't it?"  
  
They just snigger. Why is it that whenever I go to the trouble of  
making up a really good one-liner, they just stare blankly, but when  
I don't they laugh their heads off at their own private jokes? Then  
one of them goes game.  
  
"Wow, thanks! I always prefer a vampire who doesn't beat around the  
bush with all that witty banter, pick up line, want to see the world  
crap."  
  
Discard jacket, dust both demons and stroll on trying to think of a  
decent pun to say next time. Still, if they keep coming at this rate  
I'll never need to use it.  
  
I've walked more than a mile before I realise I've forgotten  
something. But vampires that young and stupid wouldn't know anything  
about any big ritual, even if they were involved.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT, HALF AN HOUR LATER  
  
---  
  
"How's it going?"  
  
"Not very well. The man used quite a lot of poetic licence to avoid  
discussing the topic at hand. Something about thundering rodents on  
a trader's wagon. And the name is very little help. The 'Rachull',  
you say?"  
  
"'R-a-ch-u-l-l', according to this. Not very impressive, is it?"  
  
Back to the books. The phone rings.  
  
"Hello, Rupert Giles speaking."  
  
"Hello, Mr Giles. Uh, Buffy dropped her jacket and I was wondering  
if..."  
  
"Why would you call m-- Who are you?"  
  
"Who am I? *What* am I? I believe the technical term is vampire,  
although 'vicious bloodsucking fiend' is an accepted regional  
variant."  
  
"So give me one reason why I shouldn't hang up on you."  
  
"Well, let's see, perhaps those pesky Rites of Rachull that are due  
to be performed Saturday night? I can give you the whos, whats,  
wheres, whys and wherefores."  
  
"And, what, may I ask, do you want in return?"  
  
"Well, your Slayer agreeing not to put a wood shaft through any  
vital organs would be a good start. Look, I'm here, I'm smart, I can  
fight, I have information, and I've got no immediate interest in  
bringing about the apocalypse."  
  
"Do you honestly expect me to trust you?"  
  
"No, but I don't trust you either, so we're even. Now, unless your  
Slayer comes looking for her lost clothing, we'll have to arrange a  
meeting. Let's see... midnight tomorrow, Christ that's cliched but  
never mind, abandoned warehouse off Townsend Street. I'll wear the  
jacket. Bring rope, tranquilizers, crosses, garlic, holy water,  
whatever you like, long as you can still ask me questions after. See  
ya!"  
  
Hangs up. Giles is speechless.  
  
"What was that about?"  
  
"Well... Someone... I... It'll have to wait until Buffy gets back,  
Willow."  
  
---  
  
FROM THE CAR  
  
---  
  
Slow down... this looks all right. I'm sick of driving anyway, and I  
do need some rest. Stop, get out, have a look around. Perfect. Go  
back to get what little stuff I have, and find another vampire there  
waiting for me, hands in pockets, cigarette in mouth, hair blonde  
through an obvious dye-job. Standing next to my car door like he was  
waiting for his girlfriend before a date. What the hell?  
  
"'Ello. Like to tell me what you're doin' 'ere?" he says.  
  
Has a British -- London? -- accent, too.  
  
"Could ask you the same question."  
  
"That one was old when me mum was born. So's this one: I asked  
first."  
  
"That's my car you're in front of."  
  
"I'll be right through its window and out the other side, with a  
baseball bat, if you don't answer the bloody question."  
  
And then I'll be right through your heart with the broken bat, but  
still... "I'm looking for a place where I don't turn to ash come  
morning. But now you've turned up, I guess I don't have to worry, do  
I?"  
  
"Try to follow or mess with me and you'll be ash long before bloody  
sunrise. It's been a while since I had a decent fight."  
  
"No aspirations to help your fellow vamp?"  
  
"Nope. Now, why're you looking for room and board in the first  
place?"  
  
"New in town."  
  
"Right. Some free advice, luv: get the hell out of here quick. If  
the Slayer doesn't get you, a bunch of X-Files types will, and  
believe you me it's better being staked slowly through the arse with  
a garlic-soaked crucifix than it is meeting those bastards."  
  
"Like hell."  
  
"Is a good description of what they put you through, yes. Leave town  
before you have to find out."  
  
"That a threat?"  
  
"No, it's a warning. They don't go in for threats, or warnings  
either. First thing you'll notice is a bloody taser dart up your  
armpit. Hurts like hell, but luckily it doesn't last long 'cause the  
next thing you get's a tranq. Then, when you wake up, they knock you  
out again and get really creative with the scalpels and the  
injections. If you're lucky you'll come out with one less fang than  
you started with."  
  
"You aren't telling me anything I haven't heard before, with a  
little less detail. Just how can you know all this bullshit and  
still be standing here? And why should I run off if you haven't?"  
  
"First, same way you know about it, obviously. They caught an Abaira  
demon early on. Second, well... You look like a young one, kid. You  
don't deserve to get dusted or experimented on, least not 'til  
you've got a decent body count to your name. Now," he snaps, pulling  
out a stake and tossing it from hand to hand, "I suggest you get in  
that fine set of wheels of yours and have a drive. I hear New  
Orleans is nice at this time of year."  
  
Think of it, but I really can't be bothered fighting this guy. Too  
damn tired. That place back past the mall looked alright. Blondie  
steps aside as I walk to my car, opens the door, bows and gestures  
like some half-drunk British git trying to imitate a lift attendant,  
which is probably what he is. Fists clench again but I hear the  
mattress calling. Have to deal with this one tomorrow night. Should  
be fun.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT, A FEW HOURS LATER  
  
---  
  
"Hey, Giles, Willow! Any luck with our prophesied terror? Found a  
few vamps, but they didn't have much to sa-- whoa, what's happened?"  
  
"Wish I could tell you, pet, but Old Watchful here won't give  
anything away."  
  
"I was just waiting for everyone to arrive back here so I don't have  
to explain this more than once."  
  
"Then explain."  
  
"Well, er... Buffy, where's your jacket?"  
  
"My jacket? What's that go-- Oh, shit. I must have dropped it when I  
took out those..."  
  
"Someone... called me a few hours ago, to say that she had found it.  
She also... mentioned that she... could help us... with the...  
prophecy. She said that... they would be performed... Saturday  
night. She wanted to meet us tomorrow night... in a warehouse."  
  
"So what's the bad?"  
  
"She's a... vampire."  
  
Buffy and Spike share an uneasy look.  
  
"So? You were expecting help from Spike earlier, weren't you?"  
  
"Yes, but... Spike... we know Spike, know what he will and won't do  
if he gets out, know what he can and can't do if he gets out, know  
what *we* can do if he gets out."  
  
"Whatever..."  
  
"Giles, when and where do we meet?"  
  
"Midnight tomorrow... at the old warehouse, near Townsend Street."  
  
"So we show up well before sunset, deck the house with boughs of  
garlic, stick a cross on the door, whatever, or just wait there with  
a tranq gun. Relax, Giles. If she wants to help, great, if she  
doesn't, she's dust."  
  
===  
  
PART THREE: DOWN TO THE USUAL STANDARD  
  
---  
  
WEDNESDAY MORNING  
  
---  
  
Yeah, what? Yes, that's my kid, you know where the little brat is?  
Oh. Shit. Yes. Thankyou. I'll just... call a few of his friends, and  
I'll be... right over. Yes. Thankyou. Goodbye.  
  
Hello, Willow Rosenberg speaking. Oh, hi, Mrs Harris! What's up?  
What? No. No way. That's... that's horrible! Will he be all right?  
Okay. Thanks. Bye.  
  
Hello, Rupert Giles speaking. Good morning, Willow. What's the  
problem? Oh. My God. Are you certain? No, you can't just catch  
anaemia... Does Buffy know? Of course. I'll be there as soon as  
possible.  
  
---  
  
THE HOSPITAL  
  
---  
  
"Well, he came in about eleven last night. God only knows what  
happened... had a couple of gashes here and there, couple of marks  
on his neck, and not enough blood left to survive more than half an  
hour. It's lucky he got in when he did."  
  
"Ah... do you know who brought him in here?  
  
"The attendant said it was a couple of 'nice-looking young men.'  
They didn't stay to give any details, though."  
  
Willow comes in.  
  
"How is he?"  
  
"Well, they were going to take me out back and do the merciful  
thing, but they couldn't afford to waste the bullet."  
  
"Xander! You're okay?"  
  
"The doctor said that he got off remarkably lightly. Once they had  
the transfusion in, he was more or less all right. They still want  
him to stay for a couple of days, for observation, but his jokes are  
down to their usual standard, so I don't think we have too much to  
worry about."  
  
"Hey! I'm the injured party here! Have some sympathy, dammit!"  
  
"And since we so *obviously* don't have anything to worry about, you  
can tell us exactly what happened, please, Xander."  
  
"I don't know... I was just sitting there, first customer in an hour  
or so came in, grew fangs, and bit me. It's kind of hard to remember  
anything more, being unconscious and all."  
  
"Male or female?"  
  
"Male."  
  
"Not our friend at the warehouse, then."  
  
"What friend?"  
  
"Long story... which we'll tell later. What did this vampire look  
like?"  
  
"Well, I only saw his game face, so... Dark brown hair, black  
jacket, tall, easily six foot, and a bit on the thin side. Heard...  
some kind of loud music coming from his car. Another black thing."  
  
"Did he say anything?"  
  
"No, just walked up to the counter, growled, dragged me over and  
sank his teeth in. Not the talkative type."  
  
"And that's all you can remember?"  
  
"'Fraid so."  
  
"Well, at least we know he probably picked you because you were  
convenient, and not because you're a friend of the Slayer.  
Nevertheless, I'll tell Buffy and Spike to keep an eye out for him  
on patrol."  
  
"Buffy *and* Spike?"  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"So, tall, thin, dark brown hair, shiny new black car, and a black  
jacket... like every soddin' male vampire known to man."  
  
"Right."  
  
"That'd be the bloke I ran into last night, then."  
  
"And you did what?"  
  
"Had a nice chat. Dropped the hint that he might want to leave  
town."  
  
"Did he?"  
  
"He drove off. Don't know how far."  
  
"May I enquire as to why you didn't attack him?"  
  
"Look, Watcher -- ex-Watcher -- I haven't had a proper fight in more  
than three bloody weeks. I'm out of form. I could've taken out a  
fledgling or two, but not that bastard."  
  
Buffy pulls out a sharpened wooden crucifix.  
  
"Can I go 'train' with him, Giles?"  
  
"Very funny, Buffy. We want him available for the meeting tonight."  
  
"Awww... can't I just stake him a little?"  
  
---  
  
WAREHOUSE OFF TOWNSEND STREET  
  
---  
  
The building is huge. And now has more crosses in it than the  
Sistine Chapel, hung with wreaths so you can hardly see the cloves  
of garlic.  
  
"This is why I hate Christmas. That and all the bloody happy-joy  
elves. Mind you, it's not a bad decorating job for twenty minutes'  
work."  
  
"It might be twenty minutes for you, Spike, but the rest of us have  
been at it for an hour, and we're getting tired."  
  
"Not my fault I burn easily."  
  
The Slayer tries to stifle a giggle and fails miserably.  
  
"Yes, but you'd think in that outfit you'd be just too *cool* to  
worry!"  
  
He's dressed in his usual jacket and trousers, plus heavy welding  
gloves, large heavy boots, a hood, a cap, and sunglasses, all in  
black.  
  
"Oh, c'mon, it's not *that* bad."  
  
It hadn't helped much, and he'd had to be careful where he put his  
face until sunset came anyway.  
  
"You look like the guy from U2 would after getting dipped in a tar  
pit!"  
  
The door opens.  
  
"Really? I was thinking more Brian Molko myself."  
  
Slayerettes pause as one and take stock of the new arrival. And her  
fangs.  
  
"And you would be...?"  
  
"You can call me Naomi." Goes back to human. "Nice to see you're  
here so early. If you hadn't been, I'd have waited here for you with  
this."  
  
And "Naomi" produces a large, impressive-looking automatic rifle, puts it down and kicks it across the floor.  
  
"I've got no time for idiots."  
  
"Very well. Put down any other weaponry you may have and come in."  
  
Out comes a stake and a few ammo clips.  
  
"Let's see... you've already cancelled my invite -- quite a  
difficult trick for an abandoned building, especially since you  
didn't know my name. And there's some kind of vampire containment  
spell, judging by those garlic wreaths you've got hanging up. I'd  
love to find out how you managed to exempt Billy here. And... is  
that motherwort? A truth spell! *Very* nice. I wouldn't expect  
anything less from the people I intend to work with."  
  
"We'll see about that. Since you know so much about the black arts,  
I'm sure you know what we want you to do."  
  
"Yeah yeah, yada yada, I swear it's truth, on my mother. That should  
do, gimme the sage."  
  
Giles sighs.  
  
"Actually, that little rhyme was unnecessary. We've done all the  
required... ceremony, and all you need to do is wear this."  
  
Buffy gets up and ties a pendant around Naomi's neck. Smells of  
lavender.  
  
"Now. The Rites of Rachull. As you said on the phone, the whos,  
whats, wheres, whys and wherefores. Take your time."  
  
Pulls out a tape recorder and presses a button.  
  
"All right. Sit down, 'cause this is a long story. I went to Seattle  
around '95, and joined up with one of the local Masters because he  
seemed to be a fairly intelligent guy. Then he took a walk in the  
sun, and one of his minions took over. Bloke named Patrick O'Meara.  
Heard of him?"  
  
Chorus of shaken heads.  
  
"Complete dickhead. Decided that having hell on earth would be a  
good idea, you know, kill half the humans and leave the rest in  
eternal torment. Found the ideal way to get it, too. The Rites of  
Rachull. See, after that goes down, all the vampires get proper  
demon bodies and don't need human blood anymore. *And* whoever leads  
the ritual gets to be king of it all. Rachull knew what he was doing  
when he wrote it up."  
  
She pauses. Giles nods.  
  
"He wanted the world to collapse into a... diabolical heap, and was  
smart enough to try and make sure he'd finish on top of it. But this  
meant the requirements for the spell, were, basically, hellish. You  
need eighty minor demons in the real world chanting in about six  
different languages at the same time in a church or whatever still  
in active use, near a Hellmouth. It has to be on the twelfth night  
after the Blooding of *some* bigwig demon, and you only get one of  
those every decade if you're lucky. Only a dozen actual human  
sacrifices, though, and only in the days beforeha--"  
  
"*Only* twelve?"  
  
"Only twelve. I *am* a vampire, remember, and besides, a lot of less  
powerful rituals need twenty or more."  
  
"And when exactly is this Twelfth Night?"  
  
"Didn't Rupert say, Slayer? I could have sworn I told him on the  
phone. Midnight Saturday. They're almost as original as I am."  
  
"Mr Giles, thank you... Naomi. Will you go on?"  
  
"It all goes down in St Jude's on Davidson Terrace. Fitting -- the   
patron saint of hopeless causes. They're already down to eighty-five   
vampires, eighty-four now I've defected."  
  
"Defected?"  
  
"Well, either you guys take me in, or I get out of town. They're  
probably out there looking for me as we speak. They find, and well,  
I don't think I need to tell you."  
  
"So why're you taking this risk... Naomi?"  
  
"Like I told you before, I don't have time for idiots. The thought  
of Pat O'Meara ruling hell for all eternity lacks appeal. So does  
the thought of any other vampire. I don't really like watching  
humans get tortured. I don't *dis*like it, but there's other things  
I like to do with my time. And then I heard a rumour about Spikey  
here switching sides over Acathla..."  
  
If this scene had occurred in a diner of any kind, Spike would have  
been having a drink (possibly a milkshake) at this point, and would  
have spluttered said drink all over the table when the speaker made  
his or her point. If he didn't have a drink, he would have made some  
ridiculous-sounding snort. However, Spike, being a vampire, had no  
desire to drink frothy flavoured milk, and didn't even have the  
breath to do a decent snort. Nevertheless, the sound he made, a kind  
of low-pitched squeal, *was* appropriately ridiculous, and everyone   
else in the room reacted accordingly.  
  
After the laughter died down, Naomi attempted to continue.  
  
"Anyway, I got sent out with a couple of fledges to get more food.  
Perfect targets for the Slayer here. I sensed you coming, hid,  
watched you take them out -- a little too fancy, by the way, if  
they'd been any older you might've had some trouble -- and noticed  
you'd left your jacket there. Went down, had a look, and Buffy's  
probably the only girl in the country with her ex-librarian's home  
phone number in her address book. So I dialled it. Rest is history.  
Questions? Comments? Death threats?"  
  
"*Sensed* me coming?"  
  
"For 'sensed' read 'got a huge fucking headache.' Whenever a Slayer   
comes within half a mile of me, I can barely stand up straight.   
Happened when I was human, too, I used to go to school with one.   
Didn't find out what she was 'til it was too late, of course --"  
  
"Please... don't." The current incumbent's uncomfortable at the  
mention of other Slayers, and who could blame her?  
  
"-- sorry, Buffy. Anyway, Pat called it a gift, I call it a pain in  
the, well, head. Thankfully, a straight Panadol gets rid of the  
worst of it."  
  
"Any ideas on stopping them?"  
  
"That's your job. I wouldn't mind seeing a large quantity of holy  
water between the eyes of Patrick O'Meara, but that's got nothing to  
do with the Rites."  
  
"If it's not too obvious an idea, maybe we could take a look at the  
church? St Judas, you said?"  
  
"St Jude's -- Judas would make a funny saint -- and yes, it is too  
obvious. They have guards posted, twenty-four hours. In balaclavas  
as well as bodysuits. With mobile phones. If they don't make it back  
to the Ranch, well, there are other churches in Sunnydale."  
  
"I thought this O'Meara guy was stupid."  
  
"He is. One of his childer's childer came up with the idea.  
Disappeared out hunting Monday night."  
  
"News to me."  
  
"Presumably the commando group got him. Is this really relevant?  
Naomi, is there any way we can stop the ritual with magic?"  
  
"Not that I know of."  
  
"So do you have any ideas?"  
  
"Well, running won't do you any good, so..."  
  
"Wait."  
  
"What?"  
  
"How many guards and how long are their shifts?"  
  
---  
  
THURSDAY EVENING, ST JUDE'S CHURCH  
  
---  
  
"All clear, master. Call you back in half an hour."  
  
Vampires tend to get tired during the day, apparently out of respect  
for tradition more than anything else. It takes an experienced  
vampire and a lot of caffeinated blood to get around it. And of  
course Master O'Meara didn't have that kind of blood or that kind of  
experienced vampire to waste. So a pair of underfed fledglings were  
on guard duty, as a token measure to comfort the other minions and  
as a warning in case of major attack. They certainly didn't stand a  
chance of fighting one off. Especially during the day.  
  
And they were already half-asleep when the tranquilizers hit.  
  
---  
  
OUTSIDE THE CHURCH  
  
---  
  
"Success?"  
  
"Success." Looks at his watch. "The guards should be waking up in  
about... ten minutes."  
  
"Right around sunset."  
  
"Guess I should wake up Spike and patrol."  
  
Walk round the corner. The bombs have been placed. Twenty minutes to  
midnight on Saturday, eighty vampires get fatal or debilitating sore  
throats. Garlic bombs... immature but effective.  
  
---  
  
"Buffy?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I heard about those commando guys using tasers and electrified  
walls and things to keep demons in, and I looked up some stuff.  
They... used to wear these in thunder rituals, and apparently they  
actually got struck by *lightning* and survived!"  
  
A thin bracelet with a large, dull-looking gemstone... smelling  
heavily of lavender. Buffy puts it on.  
  
"Really? Thanks, Will. Just hope I won't need to find out if it  
works."  
  
"Same. Anyway... bye, Buffy... Have fun!"  
  
"*Fun*, Willow?"  
  
---  
  
PATROL  
  
---  
  
Another joyless night of slaying... until I see a familiar-looking  
van. With four unconscious humans dumped inside. And, down the  
street, the things that knocked them out. Only two this time -- they  
really are running out of extras. Run up and say hi.  
  
"Hey, guys, you getting some food for the party Saturday night?"  
  
Vampire on the left decides to show his appreciation by growing  
fangs. Shrug my shoulders, pull out a stake, and all of a sudden  
there's ash on my jacket. Vampire on the right gets angry and kicks  
the weapon out of my hand. Catch it with the other and move on.  
Punch at my head, duck, punch his stomach, he dodges. Recover,  
exchange roundhouse kicks --  
  
"Do you bloodsuckers get martial arts training in the coffin or  
something?"  
  
-- headbutt, duck, punch, block, kick, roll, knock the vampire's  
legs out from under him, recover, pin him to the ground. Decide to  
check on that Naomi girl.  
  
"I hear your bosses are putting on a light show on Saturday night.  
Care to tell me about it?"  
  
He growls. Obviously not. Shove stake in his face, emphasizing  
pointy woodenness. Vampires can be so dense sometimes.  
  
"You sure you haven't got anything to say?"  
  
Growls again. Well, more of a snarl this time.  
  
"Oh well. Your loss."  
  
Pull up slightly, aim stake, dust in the grass. Too easy. Wander off  
wondering what happens if they do run low enough on vampires, when  
there's a thud against my lower back, a slight ache and that 'pip'  
sound you get when you take off nylon. Pull the thing out -- *now*  
there's pain -- rack my brains, then realize. So this is what a  
taser dart looks like. Turn to the source. Not much to see.  
  
"Well, hello to you guys, too! That really wasn't polite, you know?  
Now, if you want to talk like good little boys, there's this really  
nice all-night diner a few blocks that way..."  
  
Someone shows himself. Usual khaki and kevlar. Walks up, stops all  
of twenty-five yards away, and fires one of two guns at me. I  
sidestep without flinching. While he's busy acting shocked, I close  
the gap. "How can I put this?"  
  
Grab his other gun -- looks impressively evil, but I'm fairly sure  
it's just tranquilizers -- find a suitable place on the barrel, grip  
with both hands.  
  
SNAP.  
  
Throw the two useless halves away.  
  
"Any comments, or are you just going to stand there looking like an  
idiot? All kevlarred up and no place to go, it's tragic! Like I  
said, if you want to talk, there's this nice diner up the road. If  
not, I'll knock you out and leave a sharp note for your bosses. I  
don't kill humans--"  
  
Another thud into my side. Suddenly get sleepy. Remember that that  
other gun held tranqs. Damn. At least I know where I'll wake up.  
  
---  
  
FRIDAY  
  
---  
  
Open eyes quickly. Flash of white, probably a wall. No surprises.  
Close my eyes again, decide what to do. I don't think a person of  
my... abilities isn't going to get too much time alone after being  
confirmed awake. An idea forms.  
  
Wake up and stretch, exaggerating the morning ritual. Idly wonder  
what kind of coffee you'd get here. See the one transparent wall,  
check to see if it's the same kind of "glass" as Spike said. It is,  
but I guess that bracelet of Willow's is working better than she  
thought. Jump a little to show willing. See if anybody's listening.  
  
"Hello? Anyone there?"  
  
Wonder what they think of the voice of the freak. Give them another  
sample.  
  
"HELLO?!"  
  
Guess they aren't playing. Stand back, do my best to look  
nonchalant, shrug my shoulders. Charge the electric wall. It breaks  
with a pretty tinkling noise. I don't get cut *at all* but there's  
no time to thank anyone for lucky breaks like that, with the hall  
guard raising his gun. Duck and roll, use the same move I did on  
the vampire earlier. Has the same result. Grab his gun, snap it, and  
run on. Around a corner, another guard. Firing tasers. Giles is  
right, all this hi-techiness is killing off basic human  
communication -- he doesn't know I don't conduct electricity and  
doesn't have any other guns.  
  
Run past him, the occasional dull "thuck" and "pip" letting me know  
he's wasted another dart. Into another hall -- this one's as big as  
a hangar -- with guards pouring in, but still using tasers. Dash for  
the rapidly closing security door and drop to a roll for that  
classic Indiana Jones moment. Works great until my back hits  
something solid... apparently it was closing more rapidly than I  
thought. Look up at the commandos approaching. One of them lifts his  
gun. It's not a taser this time.  
  
===  
  
PART FOUR: EAST MEANS  
  
---  
  
Look around desperately. The commando fires. I roll, dodging. Keep  
on rolling, away from the door -- and towards another wall. A bullet  
lands inches from my head. Half-roll, half-run-while-ducking into a  
group of the guards, knocking them over. A gun lands in my hands.  
Fire into the air. Bad idea. Whatever this thing has for a bullet,  
it ricochets. Not all of the stormtrooper types are wearing anything  
on their heads. I dodge anything coming my way, aimed or not, break  
the gun in two (getting to be a habit) and throw one of the pieces  
into the melee of guards. It hits one of them where a helmet should  
be, but that only seems to make his friends angrier. One of them  
forgets his gun and lunges at me. I back into the wall, which turns  
out to have an opening. The lift the guards came out of. Slam my  
hand in the narrow gap, push the doors open a lot faster than they  
closed, and slip in. Reach desperately for the "door close" button,  
press it and then the button for the highest floor. The lift obeys.  
  
Pause for breath, and now that I can think, I'm amazed that it all  
worked. Go past two floors with no trouble. Come to think of it, the  
button panel looks like something hastily adapted from a hotel...  
  
"Intruder detected. Lethal countermeasures engaged."  
  
... or not. Wait for the spikes to descend, but all there is is gas,  
coming out of a grille near the floor. What's the deal with Slayers  
and poison gas? I can probably take more of it than they'd expect,  
but... I get a mouthful of the stuff and don't hesitate. The  
"emergency open doors" button works as well, leaving me stuck  
between floors. Climb out onto the higher one and meet about six  
stormtroopers. Grab one, knock his gun down, use him as a shield. He  
takes some kind of bullet. I pray it wasn't lead. Hold him close and  
retreat back to the lift.  
  
Climb up above it, on top of the chamber. There are no doors at all  
above the floor I just ran from... but the walls where they should  
be look pretty thin. Drop the poor man who's shielding me into the  
lift and punch through the thin boarding. Pull desperately at the  
hole, ripping open a large enough gap for me to climb through... and  
I'm free. Knuckles are bleeding, there's at least six taser darts  
poking out of various areas, but no guards here, yet. The first  
thing I see is a small window. With sunlight streaming through. It  
must be past noon.  
  
Dash to look out, and it's on the ground floor. Open it and land  
smoothly... I can even shut it from outside. Honestly, you'd think  
this town had never joined the nineties. It's easier to get out of  
than my room at home. Walk calmly but quickly back to Stevenson,  
then realize that's the stupidest thing I can do if they're based on  
campus. Lose all concept of calmness as I run to Giles's. Luckily  
it's close to the college -- it has to be for us to meet there. But  
I've had too much luck today.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
Thundering on the door.  
  
"Buffy! Where have you been? Willow said you didn't..."  
  
"Giles [pant] those commando guys [pant] saw me dust [pant] a couple  
of vampires, and [pant] captured me."  
  
"And you... how did you... escape? Never mind, that's not important,  
the question is what do we do now?"  
  
"Willow."  
  
"Willow?"  
  
"She's in danger... they're based on campus, they'll know where I  
live, where she lives..."  
  
"Oh... my... I'll call the university. Try and warn her..."  
  
---  
  
UC SUNNYDALE FRONT OFFICE  
  
---  
  
The phone rang and rang and eventually rang out.  
  
"Damn. Hey Steve, you going through McEwan?"  
  
"Yeah, got a parcel for one of Walsh's many and varied TAs, why?"  
  
"Phone message. Tell 'em it's urgent. Here's the details."  
  
---  
  
The professor marched back into the hall.  
  
"Willow Rosenberg, please go to the front office. You have an urgent  
phone call."  
  
Willow, looking even more worried than she had when she came into  
the lecture, walked quickly out the door.  
  
---  
  
She enters the front office.  
  
"Excuse me... I'm Willow Rosenberg... there was a phone call for  
me?"  
  
"Ah... yes... through here."  
  
Goes through a door into a smaller office. Some anonymous adult is  
sitting there, scowling. He calms visibly seeing Willow.  
  
"Miss Rosenberg?"  
  
Phone rings back on the secretary's desk.  
  
"It's about your roommate, Buffy Summers?"  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"We have reason to believe that she has bee--"  
  
The door opens.  
  
"I'm sorry about this, Dr Markerton... there's *another* urgent call  
for Miss Rosenberg. In my office... Willow?"  
  
She gets up, looking grateful. Through the door quickly and grabs  
the handset in something like desperation.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Willow? It's Giles. Buffy was captured by the, ah... commandos--"  
  
"No way! Is she all right?"  
  
"Fine, as far as I can tell, she's just a little tired, but she's  
worried that you could be in danger."  
  
"Well, actually, someone just asked me about her..."  
  
"Oh. Oh... Willow, we have to get you out of there... Where are your  
parents?"  
  
"San Diego, for some kind of conference, but I..."  
  
"Right. Ah... Willow... say... Your mother has been in a car  
accident there, and is currently in... ah... St Edward's Hospital  
with quite serious injuries. Go to your room, pack for a couple of  
nights away along with any magic equipment that we may need... and  
some clothes for Buffy... I'll call a taxi, it will take you here,  
go out and wait for it. Have you got all that?"  
  
"Yes... yes... oh... thank you. Goodbye."  
  
"Goodbye."  
  
She hangs up, looking downright terrified.  
  
"Dr... Markerton?"  
  
He looks less than pleased.  
  
"I have to go. My mother... she's been in a car accident."  
  
---  
  
Some anonymous office, notable only for its location in the  
supposedly non-existent sub-basements of Lowell House. Two people  
are having... let's be diplomatic here... a full and frank exchange  
of views, or at least as full and frank as is possible with a  
superior officer.  
  
"So you're telling me that first Buffy Summers escapes, and then  
just when we're about to question her roommate, that roommate gets a  
sudden phone call to say her mother's in hospital out of town? Why  
does that strike me as untrue?"  
  
"The same reason it strikes me, I'd assume, Walsh. But there wasn't  
much I could do. Stand in the way of a grieving child? Not a subtle  
move."  
  
"Never mind. We'll get this girl. Quite frankly, from the agents'  
reports, I'm not sure if she's too much of a threat to us."  
  
"Are these the same reports that said she looks human but can break  
a taser gun in half bare-handed?"  
  
"Yes, and the same reports in which she didn't attack unless  
attacked first or confined, and the same ones where she was heard  
saying she, quote, doesn't kill humans, which seems to have proved  
true."  
  
"Did you see what she did to Agent Richards? If those had been real  
bullets..."  
  
"All I've said is that she's not as much of a threat as, say,  
Hostile 17."  
  
"But she doesn't -- can't -- have your implant. We should still put  
out a search for her."  
  
"Of course. Using whatever means necessary."  
  
Markerton grimaced, to hide a smile. He knew what *that* meant.  
  
"Nevertheless, if this Summers girl has the slightest shred of  
intelligence, she'll have gone into hiding. We can't risk too many  
daytime patrols, so we'll have every man and woman we have out  
searching tonight. But there's no way we can find her if she's not  
there."  
  
"I know. I'm hoping we won't need to. You see, one of our new  
recruits goes out with a girl who graduated with our friend Buffy.  
Says she and Miss Rosenberg were, and presumably are, friends  
with..."  
  
A picture appeared on the computer screen.  
  
"... one Alexander L. Harris. He still lives with his mother, but is  
currently in hospital with what the field agents like to call  
Sunnydale anaemia."  
  
"He got drained?"  
  
"Apparently, but not completely. A couple of our guys found him when  
he still had a pulse, brought him in. They've pumped him full of  
haemoglobin and want to release him... tomorrow morning. But I'd  
rather not bring his parents into this."  
  
"Not a problem."  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
---  
  
"This is Buffy and Willow. We're not in right now, so please leave a  
messa--"  
  
Slam the phone down. Shit. Who else can I call, who else can I  
call... That Giles guy. Where's his number?  
  
---  
  
HALLWAY, INITIATIVE HQ  
  
---  
  
"Look, And. You said to me she was killing vampires with a piece of  
wood. You knew I liked her. Why didn't you try talking to her?"  
  
"We did. We sent out Ewell. I've told you this before. She grabbed  
his tranq gun and broke it in half. And then... you saw her escape."  
  
"In the same situation, wouldn't you? Besides, she was *killing*  
vampires."  
  
"Yeah, OK, she was, but we thought--"  
  
"*Killing* vampires, Agent Nicholson? This *wasn't* in your report.  
Perhaps you'd like to come into my office and tell me a little more  
about this?"  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"Hello? My God. Right... We'll be over there as soon as possible."  
  
"What happened, Giles?"  
  
"Xander... I didn't get many details but... he's taken a turn for  
the worse. She... wants us to come and see him."  
  
"I think we can."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Well... we can say Buffy's in bed... with 'flu or something... to  
Xander's mother, I mean. You and me go there, Giles... and you know  
how Spike had to hide out until sunset? He didn't notice anyone  
coming after him until nearly nine o'clock. I don't think they have  
many people out in the day. Besides, Giles, if he's sick, I have to  
see him."  
  
---  
  
The boy was in Room E12. Where surviving vampire victims nearly  
always wound up, for some reason. He'd had a lot of good interviews  
in that ward. One thing about partial drains was that they were easy  
to talk to and talked easily. The best kind.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S CAR  
  
---  
  
Get in the museum-piece Citro'n, belts on and drive off.  
  
"Willow, could you tell me *exactly* what happened before I called  
you?"  
  
"Well, I'd been really worried about Buffy... I was at a Psych  
lecture... Professor Walsh came in and said there was a phone call  
for me. She told me to go to the front office, and they put me in  
this... smaller office, with this guy, and he said something about  
Buffy. Then the secretary came in and said there was another phone  
call, and that was yours."  
  
"Right... so presumably 'this guy' works for the... commandos. Do  
you remember his face? His name?"  
  
"Average height, average weight, black hair, brown eyes, British   
accent, kinda like yours... I think. The secretary called him...   
Markerton."  
  
"Good. We'll have to... find a way to ask him a few questions."  
  
---  
  
"And now, Mr Harris, you're going to tell me all you know about  
Buffy Summers."  
  
---  
  
Make it to the hospital, dash down anonymous hallways... except for  
the last one. Willow stops Giles, takes him round a corner.  
  
"That's the guy. Outside the door, muttering to himself... That's  
Markerton."  
  
A nurse turns into said hallway and starts chatting with another.  
  
"Damn... I went to Oxford with the bastard. Best if he doesn't know  
you're with me. Go up and talk to him. I doubt he'll do whatever  
he's planning if there's people around to see, and right now there's  
you and at least two nurses."  
  
Willow nods, with some reluctance. Goes back around the corner.  
  
---  
  
"Hello, Dr... Markerton?"  
  
"Hello... Miss Rosenberg! Surprise to see you."  
  
"I heard Xander had... gotten worse and I had to see him. And you?"  
  
"What? Oh. I'm an old friend of his mother and..."  
  
"Oh, his mother just left five minutes ago. Didn't you see her?"  
  
"No, I can't say I did. A pity. So, how are you... may I call you  
Willow?"  
  
"Of course. I'm fine, I guess, but I'm really worried about Xander.  
And Buffy." Tone goes harsh. "You wouldn't happen to know what  
happened to *Buffy*, would you? Buffy Summers? Blonde girl, quite  
petite? 'Cause I have *absolutely no* idea."  
  
Storms into the ward as if to dare the "doctor" to try something. He  
leaves, going as fast as he can back to his car without arousing  
suspicion. Looks at his mobile. One missed call. Dials the number  
from memory.  
  
"And you. Gimme Walsh. Secure channel. Thanks."  
  
"Hello, Markerton. Any luck in the hospital?"  
  
"None at all. The roommate ran into me outside the ward and  
all but dared me to try something. She knows something, she made it  
obvious, but there was very little I could do with witnesses."  
  
"Well, we may not have so much to worry about after all. Agent  
Nicholson's here. Apparently he was in a bit of a hurry when he  
wrote his report and didn't quite say all he wanted to. Nicholson?  
Come and tell Dr Markerton here *everything* you told me."  
  
---  
  
ROOM E12  
  
---  
  
Giles walks in.  
  
"He seems to have left. How is Xander?"  
  
"Rarin' to go."  
  
"What about... Your mother said..."  
  
He points to the other bed. Yesterday, it contained a man sleeping  
deeply. Now it's empty.  
  
"I'm OK. The guy who was there... was taken out about two hours ago.  
If Buffy needs to visit the morgue, she can say hi from me."  
  
"Oh. Right."  
  
"What do you think, Giles? Some kind of demon?"  
  
"Yes, and quite an ancient one. It doesn't require a Hellmouth or  
ritual to survive, it can appear anywhere and frequently does, has  
been responsible for many of the great tragedies of history..."  
  
"Whoa... not one I'd bring home to mother then. What's it called?"  
  
"I suspect you'd bring it anyway. It's human error."  
  
"Giles, nothing personal, but shut up. I am the only person in this  
room qualified to make a joke that bad. Anyway, where's Buffy?"  
  
---  
  
INITIATIVE OFFICE  
  
---  
  
"Look, Walsh. She may well have been killing vampires, she may well  
be on our side, she could have put a stake through the heart of  
Hostile 17 for all we know. On the other hand, *for all we know,*  
she could be bringing on Armageddon. We still need to at the very  
least question this girl, if not capture her."  
  
"I'm not denying that. But like you said, she'll be hiding. Assuming  
she can feed like a normal human, and sticks to crowded areas, we  
probably won't ever capture her. The best chance we have is to try  
and find her and see what we can get out of her voluntarily. Trouble  
is, Rosenberg was our last lead. I talked to our recruit's  
girlfriend again and she gave me a few more names. They used to hang  
out in the library a lot, apparently. One, Cordelia Chase, has been  
in LA since last summer and doesn't know a thing. One I believe is  
Daniel Osbourne, who *was* Willow's boyfriend until he vanished off  
the face of the earth about a month ago. The last's known only as  
Anya. There's nearly fifty Anyas, Andreas, Annas, and Angelas in  
Sunnydale and not one of them fits the description. Any bright  
ideas?"  
  
"What about the librarian?"  
  
"Are you kidding? These are teenagers, Dr Markerton."  
  
"Teenagers who apparently kill demons for something to do when the  
TV's on the blink?"  
  
"I get your point. I'll look him up."  
  
---  
  
GILES'S FRONT DOOR  
  
---  
  
Very few people manage to remain calm with five armed policemen at  
their door. So everyone was surprised when the man who answered  
payed no mind to the officers and instead looked suspiciously at   
the man in the suit with them.  
  
"Hello... Dr Markerton, is it?"  
  
"Yes. Rupert Giles, I believe. I'd like to ask you a few questions  
about one Buffy Summers. Do you know her?"  
  
"What if I don't?"  
  
"I may have to jog your memory."  
  
"Well, now that you mention it, there was a girl by that name, when  
I was librarian at the old high school. Blonde, short, quite pretty  
in a cheerleader sort of way. Smart girl -- didn't study nearly  
enough, and still got some highly impressive scores. I understand  
she decided to stay close to home for college, though. Couldn't tell  
you any more."  
  
---  
  
INITIATIVE HQ  
  
---  
  
"Team G..."  
  
Finally!  
  
"... you've got everywhere from here out to Crawford, Argyle Place  
and St Michael's cemetery. Remember, tasers won't work on this girl,  
but there still could be vamps. I shouldn't need to tell you this,  
but find out what your target is before wasting ammo on it."  
  
---  
  
GILES'S FRONT DOOR  
  
---  
  
"Are you quite certain? I'm in a hurry, Mr Giles, and if you have  
*any* information on this girl we really are interested in hearing  
it. Where is she?"  
  
"In her dormitory, I would assume. Far be it from me to suggest what  
else a young woman might be doing at this hour. Why are you asking  
me, anyway?"  
  
"She... has been associated with an act of vandalism committed on  
the university campus earlier today."  
  
"Really? I'm surprised it hasn't been on the news, then. And  
considering this town's horrifying death rate, I can't help  
wondering why such a great police presence has been devoted to  
this."  
  
"Well, yes. The death rate. Primarily caused by an unnaturally large  
incidence of anaemia in Sunnydale."  
  
"Yes, it's quite unheard of, isn't it? If you didn't know better,  
you'd think that the town was infested with vampires!"  
  
---  
  
FROM THE CAR  
  
---  
  
Drive out of town to have a look at my work, and find that the pile  
of ash and molten metal has been neatly cleaned up and replaced with  
something even more hideous than the original sign. Damn. Don't   
these people appreciate public service? Turn around, drive past, and  
drop what looks like a cigarette butt out the window. Lands neatly  
near the supports. Perfect. They're in for a surprise come morning.  
  
---  
  
INITIATIVE PATROL  
  
---  
  
"Another waste of time. If this girl has half a brain, she'll be  
hiding somewhere, not waiting for us to trip over her. Does she have  
half a brain, Riley?"  
  
"She... well... I guess..."  
  
"All that time with her and you don't *know?*"  
  
"I *thought* I knew her, Forrest. I thought I knew a person who..."  
  
"... couldn't break one of these in two with her hands?"  
  
"Well, yes."  
  
"But she does have half a brain."  
  
"As far as anyone knows..."  
  
"So she won't be anywhere we can find her. This is going to be one  
hell of a boring night."  
  
"So boring we might just find some ordinary, run-of-the-mill  
bloodsuckers. Like the two on the other side of the park. The two  
which are just escaping now they've seen our guns."  
  
The vampires in question are running off, across a road and down a  
narrow alley at the far end of the park.  
  
"Split and block?"  
  
"Of course. Forrest goes west, I'll go east, Graham takes this end.  
Move!"  
  
---  
  
GILES'S FRONT DOOR  
  
---  
  
"I know, I know... from what I've seen in the hospitals, little kids  
dying from it, you almost *wish* it was something like that.  
Something you could stop or catch easily. Like Miss Summers, if  
you'd excuse my bluntness. May we come in?"  
  
"I'd be glad to have you. Tea?"  
  
Dr Markerton leads the way. The policemen follow, and Giles blocks  
their way past the front room.  
  
"I'd be obliged if your friends stay in here, though. Unless they  
have a search warrant, of course."  
  
---  
  
ALLEY OFF HARTMAN CRESCENT  
  
---  
  
East means along Hartman Crescent, through a little, unnamed street  
and out into the back of one of the countless cemeteries in this  
town. East means a slightly longer run than the other two routes  
involved in blocking off the many vamps who do the park run.  
  
The park had been a popular spot for vamps to hunt. The park had  
been a popular place for Initiative hunters to find them, and run  
after them down the same long, dark, narrow street. Some young  
agents who knew the area well managed to split up and take the  
vampire at the first crossroads up the road. One chased, one went  
west, one went east, met at the crossroads and closed in on the  
vampire. The cluttered alley -- covered in aging rubbish and  
oddly-placed dumpsters -- nullified any advantage vampire speed may  
normally have.  
  
It cut down a lot on human speed, too, if you hadn't been trained.  
Riley had been, but even then, running this fast, he occasionally  
tripped. And rolled, silently, back to his feet. Or in this case, he  
rolled silently back upright and got picked up, and slammed against  
a wall with a hand over his mouth. Silently.  
  
"Kevlar armour. Very impressive, flexible yet tough, fancy name to  
please the masses. The trouble with kevlar is, it stops bullets..."  
  
A blade cut into the agent's back.  
  
"... but not knives."  
  
===  
  
PART FIVE: A LITTLE DEEPER  
  
---  
  
"Let go of him and put the knife down! I'll shoot!"  
  
One doesn't. The other does. The offending vampire falls down,  
tranquillized. He joins his counterpart on the ground.  
  
"That's two of them, ready for tagging. Not bad, seeing as Finn  
wasn't around to help. Where is he, anyway?"  
  
---  
  
BACK IN THE ALLEY  
  
---  
  
"So, kid, y'out hunting vampires? Just nod."  
  
He nods. Leg lashes into my kneecap. I hardly notice.  
  
"That's not very nice."  
  
Let the knife go a little deeper and twist it. He tries to scream.  
Then I pull it out, turn the knife around, pop out the needle and  
stab him with that instead. He nods dumbly for a few seconds, then  
goes limp. Tranqs are a wonderful thing. A stab in an alley is worth  
a full-scale torture scene at home, and you can never have both.  
  
Go over him for a radio. Find one on his belt, remove entire belt  
and gently place behind a dumpster. Never know what they'll put into  
one of those things. Haul his body over my shoulder and stroll to  
the car.  
  
---  
  
MEANWHILE, BACK AT "THE RANCH"...  
  
---  
  
Master O'Meara was enraged.  
  
And why not? Ten vampires had killed each other through infighting,  
five more had been killed by him as punishment for the other ten,  
and eight had disappeared out hunting -- including three of his best  
lieutenants.  
  
Enraged, to him, it has to be said, was not the same as angry. When  
he was just angry he'd torture and dust a few fledglings for  
relaxation, but if he did that now, he... well, he'd have even  
*less* chance of having the vampire numbers needed to perform the  
Rites. The lack of this release, in combination with the fact that  
the ritual he'd spent the last four years working toward was now  
likely to go to Romania (vampire slang meaning to stuff up or, if an  
exclamation, go away. Your average demon would enjoy going to hell,  
but who wants to see what new tortures the Gypsies have come up  
with?) had put him in such a bad mood his minions did their best to  
avoid him.  
  
Out of the few who did return from hunting, however, one particular  
minion had drawn the short straw. O'Meara didn't like bad news, but  
didn't like shooting the messenger either... nailing them to a cross  
facing west, getting behind a shaded window and watching them burn  
up over a period from sunrise to nearly midday (instead of the more  
or less instant incineration you get when they faced east) was far   
more enjoyable.  
  
"Master?"  
  
"*What?*"  
  
"Your second-in-command... the one who disappeared out hunting a few  
nights ago? We've found her."  
  
---  
  
The group of four vampires had two orders. The first was to go to a  
certain back-street address, where they would find another vampire   
known to *them* as Cathy Preston, and attempt to persuade her, by   
whatever means necessary, to rejoin their cause. The second was to   
safely turn any humans they ran into on the way. After hastily   
trading blood with two representatives of Sunnydale's ever-shrinking  
homeless population, they came to the address, smashed a window and  
slipped in.  
  
The explosion that followed was heard a block away. That block was  
more or less uninhabited, but the thought was there.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
The suit and the sergeant have a quick, whispered conversation.  
  
"Very well, Mr Giles."  
  
Giles stands aside to let the doctor in.  
  
---  
  
FROM THE CAR  
  
---  
  
Drive back to the basement I'm calling home. Lay the body on the  
floor and play with a few toys. Pack everything away and put on some  
suitable music. The body wakes up, sees me and realises there's  
probably no point in screaming.  
  
"So, mother's little stormtrooper is awake. You feel alright?"  
  
"If I say I do, will you say that you'll soon fix that?"  
  
"Something like that, yeah."  
  
"Then I guess I should tell you to do your worst, break out the  
chainsaw and the wire waistcoat and the free set of steak knives  
because you'll never get anything out of me, so you might as well  
have fun trying."  
  
"Name, rank and serial number, hey? Damn. Well, door's open." I  
point. "If y'ever wanna chat, just give us a call. Be glad to talk  
to you."  
  
"Not funny. Where's the trap?"  
  
"I'm serious. No traps. You want to leave, you go."  
  
He gets up, look of disbelief with just that little bit of fear  
firmly planted on his face, and walks cautiously towards the door.  
As he steps out, I reach over to the CD player and turn the volume  
up.  
  
Soldier boy screams and falls to the ground, whimpering and  
thrashing.  
  
"Look, if you didn't like the music, y'only had to say."  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
Markerton stands around and while pretending to admire the decor in  
Giles's front room, casually places something in an inconspicuous  
part of it.  
  
"White or black?"  
  
"Didn't I say? Black, one sugar."  
  
The tea comes out. The two Britons sit down and begin talking.  
  
"I take it this is being recorded?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"Well, I somehow doubt that little bauble you put beside the  
bookshelf is there for decoration."  
  
"Ah... yes... well..."  
  
"May I?" Picks up said bauble, rolls it around in his hand. "Very  
nice. May I ask what is so worrisome about Miss Summers that  
necessitates all this effort?"  
  
---  
  
THE BASEMENT  
  
---  
  
Drag the body back to where it was.  
  
"If you're gonna have another fit like that, I'd better make sure  
you're safe. You could hurt yourself."  
  
Bring out the chains.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"Whatever do you mean?"  
  
"I mean, I somehow doubt so much expense and manpower would be put  
into catching someone who had merely given the university an  
unauthorised paint job. Let's see, we have four uniformed officers  
at the front door in addition to yourself. We have a listening  
device which looks more like something out of Mission Impossible  
than an American small-town police force. We have someone with a  
university degree -- at Oxford, no less -- in ancient history and  
demonology working for that small-town police force. Do you take me  
for a fool, Dr Markerton? It's obvious that this is a lot more than  
just small crime for small police."  
  
---  
  
THE BASEMENT  
  
---  
  
"Now, do you want to take up that offer?" Smug.  
  
"What in the hell did you do to me?" Terrified. Perfect.  
  
"Well, it involves an James-Bond-fan vampire, a copy of 1984, a  
small radio receiver and a large amount of medical equipment. I  
don't know the exact details, but the bottom line is, you *really*  
don't want me turning up the stereo."  
  
"Oh, God... What's wrong with..."  
  
"... the chainsaw and the wire waistcoat and the free set of steak  
knives? Nothing. A little messier, I guess, but that's half the fun.  
Good with an audience, really impresses the fledglings. But, fact  
is, we *don't* have an audience and this is so much more efficient  
if I just want information. Besides, torture's like any other kind  
of entertainment -- a lot better with a soundtrack."  
  
And I make the music a little louder to prove it. Soldier boy makes  
his own contribution.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"I feel you are jumping to conclusions, Mr Giles. The X-Files is not  
a documentary series. Even if there was a 'big police' force and  
this was a 'big crime', I would hardly be at liberty to tell you  
about it."  
  
"Then neither am I. Good day to you."  
  
The door slams and the teas remain untouched.  
  
---  
  
THE BASEMENT  
  
---  
  
"Feel like talking now? We'll start the old-fashioned way: name,  
rank, serial number."  
  
"Riley Finn. Special Agent. 75329, but we call them ID codes. That's  
all you're getting."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
Turn up the volume.  
  
"Good scream. I was worried this'd be getting a little repetitive,  
but... I guess not."  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"OK, Buffy, Willow, he's gone."  
  
"How did it go?"  
  
"As well as could be expected. Neither of us knows more about each  
other than we did before but we're both far more suspicious than  
before. It's very difficult to trust a man who's tried to put a bug  
on your bookcase."  
  
---  
  
MARKERTON'S CAR  
  
---  
  
"Get me Walsh. Secure channel. Good. Thanks."  
  
"How did it go?"  
  
"Badly. From what I'd remembered from Oxford the man was a  
world-hating, apathetic punk. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that he  
was an *observant and intelligent* world-hating, apathetic punk. He  
asked for a search warrant we didn't have, didn't tell me anything  
about our hostile, and made a point of saying he thought there was  
something bigger involved than the story we gave him. Which was  
bloody obvious with a second's thought, but you were counting on the  
fact that, like the stuffy English librarian he behaves like, he  
wouldn't be able to *think* with half a dozen armed police at his  
door. Not only did he think, he knew his rights. I told you he'd  
dealt with them before. And he noticed me putting in one of the  
bugs. He didn't spot the other one, though."  
  
"At least something went to plan."  
  
"Is anyone actually *listening* to it?"  
  
"Of course. I've got Adam Smith on it instead of TAing for  
Economics..."  
  
"Why don't you and I tune in? He'll be going over the place with a  
fine-tooth comb--"  
  
Walsh's second phone beeps. Urgent call on line seven.  
  
"That'd be Smith calling to say Giles has found and destroyed it, I  
expect."  
  
Turns on the speaker.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"We've lost Agent Finn."  
  
Followed by an urgent call on line eight announcing that both  
signals have been lost from the house of suspect R. Giles.  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"Oldest trick in the bloody book... Goodbye, Dr Markerton."  
  
He pauses for a second to admire the technological marvel, and steps  
on it.  
  
"OK, Buffy, Willow, he's gone."  
  
---  
  
THE BASEMENT  
  
---  
  
The screams die down.  
  
"Thank you very much, Mr Finn. You've been very informative. And I  
never let people who help me go off without payment."  
  
Turns off and unplugs the stereo, then pulls out a screwdriver,  
opens up the case, and messes around for a few seconds. A small  
piece of what looks like some kind of computer circuitry is removed.  
He tosses it into a bin, smiles at his captive, then closes the case  
and takes out the CD, giving it to Riley. Who looks at the vampire  
incredulously.  
  
"Don't you like it? I guess I wouldn't either, in your shoes... All  
right." Goes game. "Let's do lunch."  
  
---  
  
JOYCE, SATURDAY MORNING  
  
---  
  
"Mr Giles? Is my daughter all right? Oh, thank God. Yes, I guess I  
should... Call me if anything happens."  
  
Hang up and reluctantly get in the car to go to the gallery.  
Thinking... I hope she'll be all right, I *know* she'll be all  
right... She'll be fine... I've just missed my turning. Where's the  
next intersection... Oh, God, no.  
  
"Mr Giles? I've found... Someone's been bitten... No, I don't know  
who it is, it looks like some kind of army uniform... I hope it  
isn't... What's that? Yes I do, for the gallery... OK... thanks... I  
will... goodbye."  
  
Presses the hook and calls for an ambulance. Gives details, hangs  
up, makes another call, to say she'll be late for work, and goes to  
her car. She takes out a bag, removes an instant camera, and calmly  
and methodically takes three pictures of the victim. She puts the  
camera and developing photos back in the bag, and replaces the bag  
in the car, then goes to have a closer look at the unconscious body.  
When the doctors arrive and she drives off, it's not to the gallery.  
  
---  
  
"Buffy! Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, I'm fine. Just like all those times you asked on the phone.  
We'll find a way out of this, don't worry. Have you got the photos?"  
  
"Yes, of course... here they are..."  
  
Buffy sees them.  
  
"Oh my God..."  
  
---  
  
"Dr Markerton? We've found Agent Finn."  
  
"I suppose we should be thankful for small graces. Where was he?  
What happened?"  
  
"Nearly drained in an alley off Larson Avenue. Someone called an  
ambulance. The interesting part is, the woman who called the  
ambulance is one Joyce Summers."  
  
"Any relation to our escaped hostile?"  
  
"Her mother."  
  
"Her mother. Her *mother*. We have talked to her, haven't we?"  
Pause. "*Tell* me we've interrogated her. Tell me we've at least  
called her. Tell me we haven't been that bloody stupid!"  
  
---  
  
GILES'S APARTMENT  
  
---  
  
"Buffy, are you all right?"  
  
"Yeah... but that's..."  
  
"Riley. The guy you wanted to..."  
  
"Oh. What are we going to do?"  
  
"I guess we should go and see how he's doing..."  
  
"See what he knows."  
  
"Giles! That's not... For Buffy..."  
  
... is in tears.  
  
"I know, but we have to..."  
  
"Giles. Let me do it. Please."  
  
"Buffy... are you sure?"  
  
---  
  
INITIATIVE HQ  
  
---  
  
"No luck with the mother?"  
  
"No."  
  
"So what do you suggest we do?"  
  
"You? Nothing. Go and get some sleep. I'm going to check on Riley."  
  
---  
  
HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM  
  
---  
  
There was, of course, only one nurse at the desk this early in the  
morning. Despite -- or perhaps because of -- the large amount of  
human traffic the hospital carried, visiting hours, conditions and  
security were quite lax. That said, this probably had something to  
do with the fact that security guards are usually failed police  
officers, and you had to be pretty stupid to be that in Sunnydale's  
legendary hear-no-evil-see-no-evil-speak-no-evil PD.  
  
It boiled down to the fact that you could reasonably expect to be  
able to be at any patient's bedside at eight o'clock in the morning.  
So, needless to say, Professor Walsh was rather angry when she was  
told she couldn't see her beloved TA. She wasn't worried about the  
old man in the corner, but didn't notice the blonde student of hers  
who had slipped in behind her and heard most of the argument. If she  
had, she wouldn't have pulled out her badge in a last-ditch effort  
to get let through.  
  
"See this?"  
  
"Yes I do, and it doesn't matter if you're with the Men in Black, I  
still can't let you see Mr Finn. By the doctor's report, the man  
hadn't slept for at least forty-eight hours, and he'd been through  
some kind of serious widespread physical and mental trauma in the  
last twelve. *Nobody* is to be permitted..."  
  
Sighing in frustration, Walsh turned around quickly and saw her  
student.  
  
"Buffy Summers."  
  
"Professor Walsh. I didn't know you were a police officer. But then,  
I didn't know that Riley was in the army, either."  
  
"Buffy Summers."  
  
"That's right. You don't sound happy to see me. Was my last essay  
really that bad?"  
  
"Buffy Summers. Do you know how many people... how much  
trouble... how much damage..."  
  
"No, but I'll bet you want to tell me. In that cafe around the  
corner, like the civilized people I'm sure we both are. After all,  
we don't want to make a scene."  
  
"No, of course not. All right. Which cafe's this?"  
  
But (there's always a but) as she followed Buffy out of the  
hospital, she reached into her bag and drew a small handgun.  
  
===  
  
PART SIX: CIVILIZED  
  
---  
  
Professor Walsh was a remarkably good shot for an educator, but then  
again, not every educator actively seeks out demons for a hobby.  
Then again, this being Sunnydale, these people were formed such a  
large minority group that they could wield considerable political  
power in Sunnydale if only they could (first) get together, and  
(second) not live in a town still governed by the minions of a man  
who had auctioned off his soul to the highest-bidding demon. They  
certainly wouldn't stand a chance of ever getting anyone elected if  
one of the most powerful group of hunters killed the one of the  
second-most powerful, as was about to happen here.  
  
Walsh aimed, started to squeeze the trigger, paused, undid the  
safety catch, and then fired.  
  
If such a fact could be advertised, making the gun that killed a  
Slayer would be quite an income boost for the manufacturer.  
Unfortunately, this weapon didn't kill the Slayer, although any  
weapon that could be fired with the end of the barrel bent parallel  
to the grip without self-destructing certainly deserved all the  
sales it could get.  
  
"Civilized, remember?"  
  
Buffy pulled on the still scalding-hot gun barrel, roundarmed it  
into a convenient nearby bin and walked on.  
  
---  
  
MEANWHILE, BACK AT "THE RANCH"...  
  
---  
  
"Sixty-seven."  
  
"Yes, master."  
  
"You're telling me we have *sixty-seven* vampires left."  
  
"Yes, master."  
  
"Well then. What time's sunset?"  
  
---  
  
CAFE  
  
---  
  
Sit down, order coffees, and... sit down. Caffeine arrives. Nobody  
speaks until it's half gone. This is getting boring. I'm getting  
worried. Remember what Giles said, it'll be easier to try on Walsh  
anyway.  
  
"You want to go first?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Look, I'm not going to hurt you. Are you going to hurt me?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'm sorry about your gun."  
  
"What *are* you?"  
  
"Human, last time I checked, anyway. Got the hospital records and  
birth certificate to prove it."  
  
"Really? When was the last time you checked?"  
  
"Every morning. Can't be too careful in this town. Whole lotta  
strange stuff out there. I mean, there's these weird army guys, go  
out every night dressed like storm troopers, and sometimes you find  
one in the street the next morning with nary a drop of blood left in  
their bodies. And then the professor who they're supposed to be  
TAing for takes a few hours to 'check their condition', even though  
she barely noticed when one of her other assistants had *cancer*  
treatment. Oh, and the nurse makes a comment about the Men In Black  
when she sees your badge. What are *you*?"  
  
"A psychology professor. You haven't got enough evidence to sway a  
jury otherwise."  
  
"No, professor, *you* don't. Oh wait, you do, but if you go public  
about me you'll give me even more evidence to go public about you. I  
don't think all that talk about people... trouble... damage earlier  
was about global overpopulation. And I doubt that gun of yours was  
for skeet shooting. Of course, your second job doesn't really let  
you go public, does it?"  
  
Walsh looks resigned.  
  
"How much do you know about my second job?"  
  
"I know that you're out there hunting whatever weirdness appears in  
this town with enough technology to make ET *run* home. And you  
don't seem to like competition. But, since you're not actively  
trying to destroy the world, I think I can forgive you for the whole  
knocking-me-out-and-locking-me-up thing. Speaking of which, there's  
a group of vamps out trying to do the destroy-the-world thing  
tonight, and some help'd be nice in case the garlic bombs don't  
work."  
  
"Help? How do I know you're not leading us into a trap? How do I  
know what you are?"  
  
"Professor Walsh, I was out for a good eight hours and at least two  
of your guys saw me in action before that. Don't tell me you didn't  
run any tests."  
  
"Yes, and they told us you were a human who worked out a lot. No  
drugs, no sub-terrestrial, no evidence of you doing anything any  
normal health-conscious freshman wouldn't do. But apparent immunity  
to taser darts and the ability to break the gun that fired them in  
two with minimal effort hardly supports that, does it?"  
  
"Well, when you started this whole demon hunting business, what did  
you do for reference?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"How do you know which demon you've just captured? How do you know  
it, I dunno, can't turn into a puddle of battery acid and melt the  
guard? Or," I smirk, "just be strong enough to smash the glass and  
run for it?"  
  
"We have tests for virtually everything, and if we don't we're  
working on them. For example -- you may not have noticed it -- we  
predicted some kind of occult explosion at the high school around  
Graduation last year. I would assume that's what the explosion in  
the library was -- the one that killed the old mayor?"  
  
"Really? No, I didn't notice it. I guess I was too busy helping the  
rest of the school fight off the sixty-foot-long demonic snake that  
mayor had turned into!"  
  
I can't believe they didn't pick that. Or maybe they did and want to  
find out how much I know... shake myself out of it.  
  
"So, anything else you might have spotted? A slight change in  
temperature when the fire demons' old nest blew up in summer? A bit  
of a shake during the '97 earthquake?"  
  
"We weren't here in '97."  
  
"Whatever. In all this time, what is the worst thing you've seen?  
The worst thing you had to stop?"  
  
"There was a lairful of about two dozen vampires, over the summer...  
You don't look impressed."  
  
"Try four apocalypses and one Ascension."  
  
"*Apocalypses?* Four? Ascension?"  
  
"Human turns into demon. About three people in town left alive  
afterwards unless a volcano erupts at the right time. Or about a ton  
of assorted explosives... There's your occult explosion, bits of  
roast mayor raining down on the assembled twelfth graders."  
  
"Very funny. But you still haven't answered the question."  
  
Do my worst Giles imitation.  
  
"Honestly, kids today. Too much time in front of a computer screen  
and not nearly enough with their nose in a good book. Ever heard of  
a Vampire Slayer?"  
  
Normally, Walsh's cup would now be a sorry pile of shattered china  
swimming in milky coffee on the floor. Fortunately, spending even  
the briefest of periods in what you might call the "real" Sunnydale  
meant you didn't startle easily, and in any case the coffee was  
still on the table where Walsh had put it down partway through  
"occult explosion". But she *was* surprised. She did read the  
occasional piece of demonic literature -- for entertainment. Like  
the texts from the destroyed lair's small library, which had  
contained some oblique references to something called a Slayer,  
but...  
  
"... in 1594! When's your 400th birthday, Buffy?"  
  
"In 400 years. Well, actually not that many, but you get the idea...  
a Slayer is just a normal human being until the last one dies. Only  
then does she gain the ability to refashion shotguns at will."  
  
"And I'm sure Sam Colt would have been fascinated, but what use is all  
this?"  
  
"A weak vampire's, what, three times as strong as a human? No point  
fighting them if you can't hold them off."  
  
"So, it's all for hunting vampires. But why? How long? Who's  
responsible?"  
  
"You know what? I can't explain this that well, I'll take you to a  
guy who can later. What about you? What's your excuse?"  
  
"I can't just let this drop. You've just told me you've stopped the  
world from ending four times over the last few years. I need to know  
about you before you can know about me."  
  
"Look, professor. If I wanted to shoot you, kill you, capture you,  
whatever, I could have done it when you tried to. If it was safe for  
you to do it, why wouldn't it be safe for me? Besides, if your  
agents have functioning eyes they should know that I *was* killing  
vampires. I'm guessing that's what you do too. We should be working  
together, so the least we can do is trust each other."  
  
"All right, but I can't tell you everything."  
  
"Just tell me enough."  
  
"I work for an organization dedicated, if you'd forgive me the  
cliche, to saving the world. Saving it from anything hostile that  
the... conventional armed forces would be unable to deal with..."  
  
---  
  
"Into each generation a Slayer is born, one girl in all the world, a  
Chosen One, one born with the strength and skill to hunt the  
vampires... What? I'm quite aware of what it sounds like, but you  
really must take it seriously, professor."  
  
---  
  
SUNSET, BACK AT, YES, YOU GUESSED IT, "THE RANCH"...  
  
---  
  
"Hello, Cathy... or is it Naomi you'll be calling yourself now?  
Interesting new ID."  
  
"You think? Photographer did such a good job I let him live."  
  
"Nice job with the bombs last night, too. Ironic that you should run  
into a few of my men so soon after going to so much trouble to kill  
them. And what an explosion it was. Whatever happened to this  
subtlety you always insisted on? You see, I seem to have forgotten  
about it as well."  
  
---  
  
The tactic was crude, but it was basically the only one left to  
them. And it took advantage of what had been their main weakness --  
their huge numbers. After all, if the world's going to end in six  
hours, who cares if a few people get to leave before the rush?  
  
Essentially, every vampire was out on the town, hunting, and every  
unfortunate person who was in the way of one of them was forced to  
exchange blood. Thankfully, the amount of people on the streets was  
relatively small for a town of its size -- most people were still  
terrified of the barbecue-fork-wielding anaemia-spreading PCP  
addicts. And "The Ranch" was a fair distance from the university  
campus, the Bronze, the larger bars and pretty much anywhere else in  
town where there might have been a substantial night life. A few  
suitable rituals and they rose less than an hour after dying in the  
first place, and got told to recruit more, then go to a certain  
church on Davidson Terrace.  
  
The body count was huge, especially when the bodies got back up and  
bit you when you were trying to count them. And those out trying to  
destroy the bodies were having a bad night...  
  
---  
  
"Carver to base, Carver to base. Agent Lee has been drained and his  
body been taken by a large group of hostiles, repeat, Agent Lee has  
been drained..."  
  
---  
  
FROM THE CAR  
  
---  
  
Drive along, still reminiscing about last night's stormtrooper.  
Military training in a victim always makes torture just that little  
bit more enjoyable. More conscience for them to wrestle with, and  
the squirming usually becomes visual. Speaking of stormtroopers, one  
of them looks to have gotten a little too close to the things   
they're supposed to be killing. An X-Files fledgling... why didn't I think of that? Apart from what my tools do to the blood, anyway...   
Another vampire -- and shit, there are a lot out hunting tonight --   
is walking a step or two ahead. Obviously sired commando boy, or   
sired *someone* in the last night as their first minion. You can tell by the look on his face. Smug as fuck. Pull over for a chat.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hey. What are you doing?"  
  
"Could ask the same question, but that's boring, so here's something  
else: why're so many of us out tonight?"  
  
"What, you don't know about the Rites?"  
  
"Rites?"  
  
---  
  
"Base to all teams. Base to all teams. Agent Lee has been turned,  
repeat, Agent Lee has been turned. Last seen with known unrestrained  
hostile 24 outside Jefferson Road. If sighted, attempt to follow  
hostiles keeping maximum reliable tracking distance *at all times.*  
First sign of trouble, pull out *immediately.*"  
  
---  
  
"Of Rachull."  
  
"Fuck. Tonight? You serious?"  
  
"Dravien's Blooding. Eighty vampires chanting at St Jude's, 'cept  
O'Meara only had sixty-seven. You wanna come?"  
  
"O'Meara? You mean Patrick? Used to live in Seattle?"  
  
*That* fucking stupid, domineering idiot. Reason why I left the  
place. Well, him and the weather.  
  
"You bet. You joining us," he snarls, going game, "or are you gonna  
go to hell with the humans?"  
  
---  
  
"Ewell to base. Ewell to base. Turned agent has been sighted, with  
KU 24. Hostiles have stopped to talk with third unknown vampire in a  
large black sports car, pulled over on Westerburg Lane. Model  
unknown, license plate UAQ-457. Awaiting further instructio-- What  
in the hell...?"  
  
---  
  
Hold gaze with the angry young vampire. Look at my options. Serve  
under O'Meara in the new hell, or slowly dissolve under whatever new  
tricks Satan's torturers have come up with? Like there's a choice.  
  
Two throwing knives come out of my belt, into my hand and through  
the chests of the two vampires. Sift through the piles of dust until  
I find the wooden weapons, get back in the car, and drive off. Where  
was that church again? No-one's ending the world unless I get a  
piece.  
  
---  
  
WILLOW & BUFFY'S DORM  
  
---  
  
"Mmmmmph... Buffy?"  
  
"Oh, Willow. Sorry... I didn't mean to wake you."  
  
"Nah, it's OK."  
  
"I couldn't sleep. Think I'll go patrol, check on that church."  
  
"But Professor Walsh..."  
  
"Gave me some papers to say I'm a good little girl. Don't worry,  
Wills. I'll be fine. And I'll be wearing that bracelet of yours."  
  
---  
  
DON'T WORRY, THIS IS THE LAST OF "THE RANCH"  
  
---  
  
"Master, will we have... enough?"  
  
"We have seventy-eight already, and the night, as they say, is  
young. The Rites will proceed on schedule. Have you had any luck  
with... what's she calling herself now? Nomie?"  
  
"Naomi, and no. She swears she 'just had to get away for a few  
days.'"  
  
"A pity. I shall have to visit her sometime tomorrow. See how she's  
settling into her lakeside resort. On the lake of fire!"  
  
The minion laughed with his master. O'Meara thought his jokes were  
hilarious and had a tendency to torture those who didn't agree.  
Besides, you don't anger someone who's likely to be more powerful  
than Satan in a few hours.  
  
---  
  
PATROL  
  
---  
  
Okay, so there are a lot of vampires in town tonight. Probably  
having one last hunt for old time's sake. If this keeps up, I might  
need those Initiative guys' help.  
  
There are a lot of them out here too, come to think of it. Grin, tap  
one (alone, that's odd) on the shoulder.  
  
"Hi!"  
  
"Excuse me, ma'am, but I... oh, shit."  
  
"Don't worry, I'm a good guy. Well, person. Check these out."  
  
Hand him the papers Walsh gave me.  
  
"Oh. I see. Fascinating. Is it fun?"  
  
Ignore the question.  
  
"Wanna tell me what's going on?"  
  
"For some reason there's a hell of a lot more vamps--"  
  
"I know that. Wanna tell me why? There a pattern or something?"  
  
"Uh... they all seem to be heading toward the one area... on  
Williams Drive, or possibly the intersection of Williams and--"  
  
"Davidson Terrace?"  
  
"Yeah. How'd you guess?"  
  
"They're demons, they've decided to live out the unreliable prophecy  
of some Ancient Roman guy who spent too much time on the funny red  
mushrooms. You know, bring on Armageddon, hell on earth, lakes of  
fire..."  
  
"So what's so special about Davidson Terrace?"  
  
"The Church of St Jude."  
  
"St Jude's? I knew there was something funny about that place. My  
brother works for the town council, had to clear it out. Apparently  
someone had broke in and put *garlic bombs* in there."  
  
===  
  
PART SEVEN: MOVING FORWARD  
  
---  
  
"They didn't."  
  
"They did. I mean, garlic stinkbombs, what kind of idiot would put  
those in?"  
  
"The kind of idiot that's trying to avert the apocalypse. Vampires,  
garlic, get it?"  
  
"Oh... Oh shit..."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
---  
  
CHURCH OF ST JUDE  
  
---  
  
"A beautiful sight."  
  
And indeed it was. There were more than one hundred vampires out  
there, over thirty newly-sired, and despite the wide range of ages  
and... er... weights available on Sunnydale streets even at night,  
most of the females present were young and excessively thin, to the  
extent that young and excessively thin (or fat) males tended to  
think of them when... never mind. The fact of the matter was that it  
went against the very grain of a vampire's unbeing to turn someone  
that would look out of place on the cover of a dodgy British men's  
magazine.  
  
"Now, my servants, the chants you will... chant are written on the  
walls. Anyone who gets them wrong will be dipped in a vat of crushed  
garlic."  
  
---  
  
"You got a cellphone?"  
  
"Yeah, but I can only--"  
  
"What are you waiting for?"  
  
"I can only call for backup on my radio."  
  
"Great! I get phone, I call my help, you get radio, you call your  
help."  
  
"I can't let civilians--"  
  
"*I'm not a civilian.*"  
  
---  
  
CHURCH OF ST JUDE -- 11:30 P.M.  
  
---  
  
Wooden walls covered in eldritch graffiti which looked impressively  
evil and terrifying but actually translated to the diabolical  
equivalent of a Lost Cat poster. One large pentagram, painted on the  
floor in black. Seven smaller ones surround it, in goat's blood  
fresh from the Sunnydale slaughterhouse -- probably the only one in  
the country to make more out of sales of the animals' bodily fluids  
(to both demons and humans who *want* to be demons) than their  
actual meat. Forty marks encircle it all, places for the "guard  
vampires" to look on.  
  
The pews which used to be here are either piled up outside or piles  
of kindling in the middle of the smaller pentagrams, ready for  
burning in the ritual. And in pride of place in the central star,  
there is the church's normal pulpit, hastily removed from the stage,  
with demonic sigils mortal man is not meant to wot of (so they how,  
why, when and where them instead) roughly carved on every visible  
part. The standard Bible is replaced with a spell book decorated  
similarly but with far more ancient and less stylised symbols.  
  
O'Meara, of course, had his entire part of the ritual memorised,  
making the book useless except for show. It's currently open to an  
obscure and specific incantation designed to prevent a minor German  
sub-species of aurochs from interrupting ritual bonfires.  
  
---  
  
CORNER OF DAVIDSON TERRACE AND EDWARD STREET -- 11:35 P.M.  
  
---  
  
Not every Initiative agent was at the corner. Their bosses, contrary  
to popular belief, *weren't* stupid and had their normal numbers  
guarding the main base, as well as a few plain-clothes agents  
scouting out the church. But it was a sight to strike paranoia in  
the hearts of X-Files fans everywhere anyway.  
  
Serious-looking men in black suits and sunglasses talked in low  
tones on mobile phones until they realized they were standing a  
metre away from each other, and switched to two-way radios. Guns   
were unloaded off the backs of trucks to khaki-uniformed   
footsoldiers wearing dodgy night vision goggles, who tried their   
best to keep their abused eyes away from the street lights. Hum-vees   
rumbled up and down the street, without ever actually stopping,   
slowing down, or otherwise indicating they were of any use   
whatsoever to the congregation waiting to attack the church.  
  
Meanwhile, the townspeople woke up and staggered to their windows to  
see what all the fuss was about. They sighed in relief when they  
realized it was only a military presence large enough to put the  
entire state under martial law, rather than something *worrying*,  
like a teenager.  
  
Such a teenager was currently loading a crossbow, praying that Giles, Willow and Spike back at the former's apartment could   
research their way out of yet another apocalypse. She's leaning back   
against a truck full of standard-issue M16s and ordinary lead   
ammunition -- used on the grounds that while bullets indeed couldn't   
kill vampires, not many could complete a complex ritual with their   
left thighbone in several hundred pieces. Of course, that crossbow,   
used wisely, would be just as effective as a chorus of the   
automatics.  
  
---  
  
INSIDE THE CHURCH -- 11:40 P.M.  
  
---  
  
The Vampire Master and soon-to-be Supreme Ruler of All Hell Patrick  
O'Meara swore as he tried missed the nail with the  
magically-enhanced hammer yet *again* and hit his thumb, any  
advantage vampire healing may have presented being compensated for  
by vampire strength. He couldn't believe it -- of the twenty-five or  
so mostly newly-sired minions he had that weren't preparing for the  
Rites, not *one* had the faintest idea of basic handymanning. No  
matter how powerful you became, if you wanted something done  
properly, or in this case, done at all, you *still* had to do it  
yourself.  
  
And it had been done properly, or at least impressively, which, when  
it came to keeping minions under control, was the important thing.  
And O'Meara had so much practice keeping minions under control that  
the habits had became deeply ingrained.  
  
You can just tell it's going to backfire, can't you?  
  
---  
  
OUTSIDE THE CHURCH -- 11:45 P.M.  
  
---  
  
The Initiative troops got into position and waited. And waited. And  
waited. Buffy marched up to Professor Walsh, frustrated, and asked  
what they were waiting for, the world was ending in fifteen minutes.  
Walsh replied that the doors were sealed with *something* which  
bullets couldn't pierce, and Colonel Newsome wouldn't let them  
borrow the rocket launcher after what had happened last time   
(involving a slime demon, a small quantity of explosives and a pack   
of cards). The Slayer nodded, smiled, ran over to the doorway like   
an eager schoolgirl and pulled the handle.  
  
The entire doorframe was torn from the wall in a cascade of  
splinters and rot. Using the momentum to do a few unsteady  
pirouettes away from the gaping hole, she flung the doors toward the  
road, where they smashed into the gutter, flipped up around the  
kerb, and crushed a picket fence.  
  
---  
  
Inside, Master O'Meara looked out at the countless glittering gun  
barrels pointing at him and his servants, and smiled.  
  
A voice shouted "Fire!"  
  
The roar of the gunfire lasted about three seconds, the time it took  
for the people causing it to realize that something was going wrong.  
Essentially, the bullets weren't actually hitting the targets, or  
even the far wall, but stopping and floating in the air, completely  
motionless, at the threshold.  
  
"You like? One of Rachull's little tricks. Stops unwanted  
interruptions to his rituals. No human or projectile fired by one  
can get in, much like a vampire without an invitation." Pauses to   
take stock of the attackers. "So these are the few... score good men  
protecting the mortal plane from all that is unholy? A pity. All  
this technology and you can't stop Armageddon... I remember the old  
days back when all it took was an angry Slayer and a crossbow or two   
to save the world. And people complain about progress..." Pauses   
again.  
  
"Isn't anyone going to say 'you'll never get away with this'?"  
  
---  
  
Someone did, an Initiative agent at that, but he did it very quietly  
and in any case he wasn't talking to O'Meara. He was talking to the  
vampire who'd just got out of some flashy black sports car and put  
tranquilliser darts into him and his two companions. This wasn't  
what he'd expected when he'd been ordered to guard the church's back  
entrance. The vampire slipped in and prepared himself.  
  
---  
  
INSIDE THE CHURCH -- 11:55 P.M.  
  
---  
  
The Rites were ready to start. Each vampire was in position, one on  
each point of the pentagrams, forty on the guarding positions marked  
in a circle surrounding it all, and the remaining twenty-five or so  
lounging around waiting for the show -- nearly all between the  
circle and the stage, since the cloud of bullets and hole in the  
wall on the other side were unsettling even to a vampire.  
  
O'Meara stepped up to the pulpit, raised his hands to curse the  
heavens, drew in a breath, and spoke the first syllable. The sound  
resonated clearly and suitably terribly, throughout the church and  
the street. As he reached the second line, the first pentagram lit  
its fire, and began to chant. He continued, the pentagrams lighting  
up like cigarettes, one for each new line of verse. Three, four,  
five, six, seven... As the final fire was lit, pistol fire filled  
the air along with the screams of seven of the vampires sitting near  
the stage slowly turning to dust.  
  
The bloodsucker in the black jacket (not made of leather -- what's  
the point of wearing something that's both black and shiny?) stepped  
off the stage, put a new clip in his gun, smiled, and put on his  
worst Irish accent.  
  
"Hi, Pat. Amazing what happens if you soak a bullet in holy water  
for long enough, eh?"  
  
O'Meara just roared in impotent fury.  
  
"Nice choice of ritual. Rachull was really smart for a sorcerer.  
Apart from the surprising lack of geological issues for a  
world-ending ritual, the beauty of his stuff is, you can stop the  
chanting for a minute or so and start where you left off without  
making any difference. Bring in another guy to lead the ritual in  
tandem, if you want. And if you don't want to do that with me, I'll  
kill you. Still got about, oh, thirty seconds to decide."  
  
A grimace and a reluctant "come here" gesture.  
  
"What I like to hear."  
  
And the new vampire strode through a gap between pentagrams, aimed  
his gun at O'Meara's lower back and fired.  
  
---  
  
The agents waited outside, not really believing that the world was  
about to come to an end, what with the lack of earthquakes and rains  
of fire and Arnold Schwarzenegger. It didn't help that they had  
trouble seeing the action through the cloud of lead at the door. But  
they heard the gun shots all right, and managed to spot the leading  
vampire turn to dust. A cheer erupted, dying down the moment a new  
vampire stepped up to the pulpit and recommenced the chant.  
Unsurprisingly, none of them had any magical training whatsoever,  
and so had no idea of the multidimensional turmoil inside the  
church.  
  
---  
  
The usurper had studied Rachull hard, first in university demonology  
and then as a fledgling under a breakaway group from the Order of  
Aurelius. He'd hated every minute, and, like anything he felt so  
passionate about, still remembered most of the details. And  
Rachull's penchant for long, complex, demanding, but above all  
*powerful* rites and spells had only been exceeded by one for  
ensuring that those rites could be completed no matter what may  
happen to the casters. So it *was* possible to stop the chanting for  
sixty seconds or more, add a second leader or even replace the  
original one without affecting the outcome. In theory.  
  
Unfortunately, another little-documented effect of his work was that  
if a caster got *killed* at any time, any and all effects of his  
casting would gradually vanish. So the bloody pentagrams so deeply  
and magically emblazoned on the floor began to get scuffed; the  
mystically-lit fires in the middle of the stars flickered and died;  
and the anti-invitation spell gradually depleted.  
  
In other words, the force that was preventing the cloud of bullets   
at the door from moving forward faded away.  
  
They moved forward.  
  
---  
  
A few minutes later, the humans massed outside cautiously set foot  
in the church.  
  
Even allowing for the fact that the things in here were, without  
exception, malevolent bloodsucking demons, it's still anything but a  
pretty sight. Bullets can't kill vampires, but they can do one hell  
of a lot of damage. If one goes through a vital organ, it takes  
months to fully heal. Thankfully, not many of the vampires would  
have to worry about this, since the soldiers are following Buffy's  
lead in grabbing the nearest unburnt piece of kindling and staking  
the nearest undead, even if it does take two agents to hold one down  
and the third three or four tries to find the heart.  
  
One of them decides to comment.  
  
"Hey, look, they've got one chained up."  
  
The Slayer looks up from the plume of dusty ash behind the pulpit.  
Sees a female with her legs locked together and to the wall,  
unconscious and badly wounded -- and not one caused by bullets.  
  
"Oh, shit... Naomi..."  
  
"You *know* her *name?*"  
  
"How do you think I knew where to go? She wanted to defect... I  
guess they found out."  
  
"You sound awful sympathetic..."  
  
"Look, if it wasn't for her we'd all be boiling in O'Meara's special  
version of Hell right now. You don't just kill someone like that.  
Don't let her go, but, I dunno, sedate her, V-chip her if you want,  
wake her up sometime tomorrow and let us talk to her."  
  
"Us?"  
  
"Didn't Walsh say? I do have people helping me out."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
Moves onto the next vamp and stakes it rhythmically.  
  
---  
  
SUNDAY MORNING -- SUNNYDALE HOSPITAL  
  
---  
  
"Riley. Are you all right?"  
  
"I think I'll survive."  
  
"Has Walsh told you..."  
  
"Told me what?"  
  
"Well, put it this way. She's told me."  
  
"Oh. About..."  
  
"Yeah. I was kinda hoping for a normal guy, but I've lived in this  
town for three years. Should know better by now."  
  
[the vampire smiles]  
  
"I am a normal guy."  
  
[pulls out a screwdriver]  
  
"Who hunts demons? Not that I can talk..."  
  
[leans over]  
  
She leans over for a kiss.  
  
[starts to unscrew Riley's left eyeball]  
  
He screams.  
  
---  
  
"I'm sorry about the shock, miss. I'm not sure you should have been  
let in at all, but..."  
  
"Spare me, doctor. What's going on?"  
  
"Sorry. he's been through a lot of pain, physical trauma, and  
judging from his behaviour he may have been subjected to some kind  
of--"  
  
"OK, great, what can *I* do?"  
  
"If you'd just let me finish -- this behaviour is consistent with a recent period of *serious* trauma or abuse."  
  
"Oh, shit... all... Friday night... the-- the torture... That's... probably..."  
  
"In that case, it's a miracle he was even coherent."  
  
---  
  
THE END  
  
---  
  
Questions? Comments? Death threats?  
Feed me at rancour@iprimus.com.au  



End file.
